Willy

“Oh thank fuck—c’mere, Baby.”

Katsuki—a Katsuki, you suppose—starts moving independent of the other. He all but collapses into very confused arms, dropping his chin on your head and squeezing you tight. The other one glowers, messily shoving two pairs of boots under the bench with complete disregard for his strict organizational pattern.

“Um…”

You blink at the Katsuki that cradles you. He gives a soft smile in return, one that usually requires blood, sweat, and tears to crack (even if it takes you a significant less amount of blood, sweat, and tears than the average human—they’re blood, sweat, and tears nonetheless) and you don’t know what to do with it. Where to put it.

“Got hit with a fucker’s quirk,” the other Katsuki explains after giving up on making the boots fit. Typically, there aren’t two pairs, but one—and the shoe rack is feeling the added pressure.

“So…it’s the quirk that split you in two,” you ask, even though you know. The answer is staring you right in the face, but, like. Just in case.

The Katsuki still holding onto you grunts in agreement, and you finally manage to peel away. He steps back as the other Katsuki steps forward, and you finally get a good look at how identical they are. Which, obviously, but it’s still slightly alarming, nonetheless. Like…the shining twins, if they were blond and angry. And covered in grime.

“Holy shit…” your eyes dart between the two of them, trying to find discrepancies in anything other than mismatched dirt. You find none, save for the way they hold themselves. You need better names—you can’t keep calling them Katsuki and other Katsuki.

“Do…you know when it’s going to wear off?”

A self-indulgent question. Perhaps.

“Fuckin’—no.” Angry Katsuki digs a knuckle into his ear, and the other one yawns. “They gotta track the fucker down, first. Apparently, I can’t do my goddamn job like this.”

He gestures between the two of them, and you teeter your head in semi-agreement. The other Katsuki pipes up, and god, you need better names.

“’M not pissed about it, though,” He steps out of line to grab the hand limp by your side, kissing your knuckles with the lightest touch you’ve ever felt. “Means I get to see you.”

Oh?

“I am,” angry Katsuki growls, slapping his counterpart’s hand away from yours. “I should be out there, hunting that mitosis motherfucker.”

“If you go out there, you’re killing him,” other Katsuki defends. Angry Katsuki rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ exactly.”

Other Katsuki just sighs, turning back to you. Immediately his features soften along with his voice. “How’ve you been today, Baby? I left early.”

“Um…good? This is just…” you peer around Katsuki’s body to view the other one, who rolls his eyes again, almost completely ignoring your presence. That is, until:

“Ima fuckin’ shower,” he grumbles, and walks down the hall.

“A lot?” Other Katsuki finishes for you, watching his parallel until he disappears into the bedroom, and you nod.

Something like that.

“Okay. Kat.” You point to Angry Katsuki, who’s now glowering on the couch, much like he did at the front door, and much cleaner than before. Your finger shifts to Other Katsuki, until his head becomes a small point at the top of your fingernail. “Suki. That way, if I call, you both don’t come running. Cool?”

While Suki nods his head with diligence, Kat finally smiles. Not the soft smile that’s reserved for you, but the self-satisfied smile reserved for villains, the one that barely hides his hunger for blood.

“Hear that, Nerd? I’m Kat, not your bitch-ass.”

Suki blinks, relatively confused, and tips his head to the side. “Why the fuck does that matter?”

“’Cuz I’m the original!” Kat says loud and proud, digging a thumb into his chest. “Not you.”

“…Again, why the fuck does that matter,” Suki grumbles, less a question and more an observation. A statement. “We got split in two. We’re two halves of the same person, not a copy-paste.”

“I fuckin’ know that, shit stick.” Kat’s hands crackle at the prospect of being challenged, and while Suki tries to hide the way he shrinks in on himself, you throw a spare pillow at Kat’s head.

“Ow, what the fuck!”

“No explosions in the house!”

Kat grumbles, but his hands fizzle out. He shakes them out at his sides. “’M not doin’ this shit—’m goin’ to bed.”

“Ah-Ah! No,” you say, and Kat freezes like you grabbed him physically, like there’s an invisible wall that separates the living room from the rest of the house. “You said we’d watch that move tonight, remember?”

“We said,” he amends, looking unimpressed before jerking his head to Suki. “Make him watch it.”

“No! It’s exactly like you said—you both promised. Technically,” you smile and look at Suki, who, honestly, looks like there’s no other place he’d rather be—he just watches you talk with his chin propped on a hand and love in his eyes. “So. We’re both watching it.”

“Fuckin’—fine,” Kat groans, loud and obnoxious, and to the ceiling. He sits back down with a huff. “But I swear to God, if it’s some fuckin’ Twilight shit again—”

“It’s not.” You get up only to shove Kat over with a hip, quitting his manspreading, and make yourself enough room between them. He lets you. Suki wraps both arms around your middle, and cuddles you close and tight, like you might up and disappear tomorrow. “That was one time—”

“One horrible time, when I was forced to watch five fuckin’ movies of absolute bullshit—”

“It wasn’t that fuckin’ bad,” Suki defends with a quiet grumble, and you want to scoop him up and run away with him. “’S…campy.”

“Thank you,” you nod, before redirecting your attention to Kat, patting him on the leg. “See? Suki understands quality content when he sees it.”

“Get the fuck out my face.”

You don’t put on Twilight—but you do put on Argylle, and that’s not much better.

“So, you’re tellin’ me,” Kat trails off, and you watch the movie flicker in carmine eyes. “That the whole damn time, this chick was writing a book that predicts the future—”

“Specifically a spy-future, yes—”

“And, that’s why…y’know what? Fuck this shit, my head hurts.”

“You have no sense of whimsy,” you sigh, unimpressed. Kat rolls his eyes.

“Listen, Sweetheart,” He fills his voice with faux saccharine, artificial flavoring, and you scowl at the mockery. “I got a job—a real serious job. Don’t got fuckin’ time for ‘whimsy.’”

Kat hangs air quotes with a hand, and that just pushes your frown deeper.

“Oh, and I don’t?” you smile, but it’s just as artificial as his words. Kat glowers, and behind you, Suki goes:

“Uh oh…”

“Somethin’ like that.”

With a huff, you snatch him by blond spikes—and, if Kat is even a little tenderheaded as Katsuki is…

You yank and pull upward, and Kat rises with your grip. Yep. “Ow, what the fuck?! Ah—okay, fuck, I’m sorry—”

He hisses, face twisting in agony—and finally, you relent the torture. You let him go with a satisfied smile, and Kat snarls at you, rubbing the soft points of his head.

“What did we learn?”

Suki snickers under his breath. “Fuckin’ nothing.”

Kat scrambles at that, getting to his feet in preparation to attack. Fear flashes across Suki’s face, making you wonder if his statement was supposed to come out quieter, perhaps unheard. He scrambles over the arm of the couch, and you get thrown around in his rush.

“You’re fuckin’ dead meat!” Kat hollers. Suki takes off in a mad dash.

It isn’t before long that they’re chasing each other in circles around the couch, like a pack of wild dogs, snarling and huffing and puffing. (With the occasional spark—which you’re quick to put out.) You watch your movie, and occasionally, them, and eat the majority of the popcorn in the process.

Eventually, they collapse back onto the couch and into their respective sides, twin chests heaving and glistening in sweat until their breath makes the mile long trek to catch up.

“You two done?” You ask, but never take your eyes off the screen. It’s getting to the good part.

Suki nods. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kat snaps, and you double check to make sure he isn’t talking to you (because, if he is—you’re locking him in the basement), but he’s still glaring at Suki like he murdered his family. “You piss me the fuck off.”

“Clearly,” Suki snorts, this time quiet enough for Kat to not hear. Still vaguely out of breath, he squeezes your thigh to get attention, and slings his other arm behind you. “I wan’a kiss. Can I get a kiss, Baby?”

You giggle, because as stated, soft Katsuki is a Katsuki you’re used to having to work for, and then some. His hand lifts to your chin as you say, “Sure, Suki.”

And then, you’re getting snatched back by your pajama shirt, nearly choking in the process with an embarrassing and garbled noise.

“Abso-fuckin-lutely not,” Kat grunts, and you nearly fall backwards into his lap. “My girlfriend.”

“Your—” Suki cuts himself off with a scoff, grabbing your hand and pulling you up again—up and away. “One, we’re the same damn person, she’s both our girlfriend. And two, I want my fuckin’ kiss.”

Back.

“Well, that’s too damn bad,” Kat huffs, and you’re yanked again. This is starting to get dizzying. “I don’ want your bitch lips all over her.”

Forth.

“Okay,” Suki chuckles, and you’re tipped forward. Seriously? “And, I don’t want your ugly ass mug anywhere near my girl, so—”

Back.

“Oh, now it’s ‘your girl’—I thought we—”

Forth.

“Yeah. My girl, ‘cuz you don’ even know how to treat her.”

Back—Forth.

“You’re loud, and rude, and angry—”

Back and Forth and Back and Forth.

“Y’don’t appreciate shit that she does for us, and it fuckin’ shows—”

Back and Forth and Back and Forth. Back and Forth and Back.

“Yeah, and she loves me for it anyway, Dipshit—”

Back and Forth and Back and Forth an—

“Can you two quit it!”

When they still, you go tumbling forward and into Suki’s lap—which, Kat doesn’t like very much, and grumbles under his breath about it.

“Sorry, Baby.”

“Fuckin’ what.”

“You guys realize I can kiss both of you, right?” Your words border on exasperated. Kat rolls his eyes.

“Fine—I get first.”

“No, I do!”

“I will blast you to goddamn smithereens.”

“Fine! At least I get my fuckin’ kiss—”

“Oh my god,” you groan aloud, running hands over your face and sinking deeper into the couch. It’s endless. “Y’know what? No. Stand up.”

You pat both of their backs to urge them upwards, and they follow. Standing side by side and watching you—and if you thought that one set of Katsuki’s eyes were intimidating enough, try two.

“Okay, Suki—you asked first, so you go first.”

Kat grumbles under his breath, something about ‘well if I fuckin’ knew that, woulda asked ages ago,’ but relents relatively quiet. Suki bends over with a smile, cradling the side of your face to lift it higher.

“Thank you, Baby.”

Katsuki’s lips always feel warm, and Suki’s are no different—they move slow and soft and patient, like he knows what’s coming, when it’s coming, so might as well take his time until he can see the finish line. He inhales like he could breathe you in, and the hand cupping your face tightens with want and satisfaction.

When Suki pulls away, you’re both breathless, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Missed you.”

But, before you can respond—

Suki is shoved out of the way, out of frame, and in comes Kat, who would be on fire if he could. “Y’call that a fuckin’ kiss? Watch and learn, Loser.”

Kat grabs you by the chin and kisses you with weight. He presses into you with his upper body, using a free hand to rest on the back of the couch, and placing a knee between your legs. Kat kisses you into the cushions and out of any breath you have left, leaving you scrambling for air.

“How was that,” Kat asks once pulling away, dragging his thumb across your kiss-swollen lips. You swoon, before remembering that this Katsuki is downright evil.

“It was…um…” you try to say fine, try to say okay, I’ve had better, but the weight of two intense stares fill your veins and cloud your judgement. And, just overall ability to speak as a whole.

“See Dumbass, what’d I say?” Kat hollers over his shoulder, standing up to glare at his doppelgänger. “Kiss her right and she fuckin’ melts.”

Suki bristles at that, but doesn’t bite back with words. Instead, he quietly assumes Kat’s place with a hum, thumbing the highest point of your cheek as he looks down. He studies you.

“Mmm…looks pretty solid to me,” Suki mutters, tilting your head every which way, like he’s trying to find something that’s not there. Kat yells from the back, ‘shitty ass joke!’ “Wha’d’ya think, Baby? Who’s better?”

“Um,” you swallow, and try to stifle your inner goblin. “I don’t…I think I’ll need more than that to…y’know…know?”

And, yet. The goblin comes out, anyway. (At least she’s respectful, this time.)

Suki teeters his head in consideration, and Kat snorts from behind him. “Fuckin’ pervert.”

You gawk. Because, like, yes, but also, “how am I supposed to know based off a three second kiss?”

“Valid question.”

“Listen—I don’t know about Mr. Chastity over here, but mine was definitely longer than three seconds.”

Suki gives him a look over his shoulder, and though you can’t see it, you can guess based off the way he goes, “Seriously?”

“I said what I said.”

You see the tail end of Suki rolling his eyes as he turns back to you, and the look of pure annoyance on his face shifts to one of affection. His thumb brushes your cheek again, as he leans forward, close enough for you to feel his breath across your lips.

“Well, Baby? Should we prove that fucker wrong?”

But, you’re not paying attention to much else other than the way Suki’s lips round and soften to form words that you barely hear. So, you just nod, let out a quiet ‘uh huh,’ and let him close the distance.

Suki kisses you with more passion this time around, but less vigor and aggression than Kat. You feel comfortable and grounded, and gasp, hands finding the middle of his shirt as he tilts his head to the side. You don’t get kissed stupid like you do with Kat—like the earth got flipped upside down and you just have to deal with it—but held and loved, and that’s stupefying enough.

Suki moans into your mouth, making your body run both hot and cold. It takes ages and alcohol to convince Katsuki to make a sound, to stop holding himself back, but this one might not. This one might not, and God, if that doesn’t make your head spin.

A tongue licks the seam of your lips but never pushes further than that, just enough for you to be aware of the threat and the want, but never enough to give. You whine, pushing deeper—and Suki smiles against your lips like that was exactly what he wanted, before his hand encompasses the front of your neck to squeeze, restricting your airflow just enough.

When he pulls away, the hand around your neck slides to your collarbones, and your eyes flutter shut. It continues to snake lower, past the waistband of your sweats and even lower than that, until two fingers run along your folds. They’re gone as quick as they came, and Suki pulls them out to reveal—

“See? She’s soaked.”

Kat growls, but before he can say anything, Suki tucks both fingers into his mouth and sucks. It’s obscene, and you think you see his tongue poke through at some point.

But then, he’s getting shoved in the shoulder, falling into the couch and more importantly, away from you, as Kat takes his place between your legs. Before you have time to protest (which—you won’t, but you might’ve for a second, for like, posterity) Kat is shoving your sweats down to your ankles, clearly tired of playing fair.

“I’m sick of his shit,” he grumbles, shifting your hips forward until you’re nearly laying flat. “Aren’t you sick of his shit, Princess?”

You don’t really know what to say to that. Luckily, you’re not given much time to—Kat sticks his tongue out and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, swirling his tongue around your clit, and dragging it back down.

“Fuckin’—take your goddamn time,” Suki growls, and Kat just rolls his eyes and continues his ministrations. “I worked hard to get her that fuckin’ wet, y’know—”

Kat only pulls his mouth away to give his double an incredulous look, pointing at your pussy like you’re not even there. “Oh, you think you did this.”

“I know I did,” Suki snarls at the slight, and when Kat chuckles around your clit, it makes your thigh seize. “But, fine—fuck her dry like an animal. See if I care when she comes runnin’ to me ‘cuz y’don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’.”

Kat doesn’t grace his words with more words, just flips a middle finger in his direction before that hand finds your thigh. Only to spread your legs wider, broaden his plate, and you nearly keel over when he sucks too hard.

“He bein’ too rough?” Suki coos, grabbing you by the jaw and running a thumb along it’s sharpest point. “’S okay if you can’t cum, Baby—he has absolutely no finesse.”

Suki rips Kat away from you by the hair, his lips flushed and glossed from you, and yanks him out of the way. Kat snarls and lets his palms pop, but one halfhearted glare from you, and they fizzle right out.

“He’s being a dick!” Kat defends, gesturing at the perpetrator with open hands—said perpetrator simply settles between your legs, licking his lips. Kat is ignored.

Suki moves a lot slower than Kat does—still hot and heavy, but languid, like he knows you’re not going anywhere any time soon. He licks you up and down, avoiding places that would do anything more than simmer. But, even low heat will eventually come to a boil, and your breath hitches when a finger brushes your entrance.

Kat yawns. “I’m fuckin’ bored.”

Suki rolls his eyes and can’t help but pull away, get another word in—but his finger finally quits (some of) the teasing and plunges right in. You shiver, then melt. “Well, that’s too damn bad.”

“Yeah, it is—make her scream or somethin’ before I fuckin’ fall asleep.”

“Oh, please fall asleep,” Suki insists, but never takes his eyes away from you—your pussy—as he berates his double, too fascinated by the way you squeeze and relax around him. “I’d love if you fell asleep—I could be both of us, and she wouldn’t even notice.”

Kat barks out a laugh, loud and sarcastic. “You get mad at me for bein’ rude, then you call her stupid? Some white knight.”

“No,” Suki says, and adds another finger and curls them upward—it makes your leg kick involuntarily, and it probably would’ve done some damage if he didn’t catch it in time. “I’m callin’ you basic. Bitch.”

“Oh, you fuckin—”

“Guys! Please!” You scream at the ceiling. You’re exhausted and annoyed, semi-horny and so far away from the finish line. “Stop arguing—do you want me to cum or not?” 

And, well. That shuts them up quicker than you expected.

“Absolutely, Baby.”

“Ugh—fuckin’ whatever.”

Suki focuses on you, after that. Kat tries to distract him with playground insults, tugging at his hair like a childhood bully, but the most he gets in response is a middle finger. Suki hoists your thigh onto his shoulder, and, when you wiggle too much, uses a free hand to pin your waist in place.

It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time until you feel the fire in your belly turn dangerous, like wind carrying bonfire embers into trees to ignite them. It’s not your fault—there’s two pair of eyes when there should be one, equally eager, equally fascinated. Kat catches your chin and pulls you in for a rough kiss, and Suki’s eyes flutter when you squeeze around him, like he’s fingering himself and feeling every curve of his fingertips.

You squirm, understanding the specifics of the feeling that builds and hating them. “Ah fuck—think I’m gonna…?”

“Squirt?” Suki finishes with a knowing smile, like that’s what he’s been aiming for this whole time, and you bristle.

“Fuck you,” you pant, but it get infinitely harder to argue as your vision starts to blur with your breathing. “Yes, Asshole.”

“Hot,” Kat nods in agreement, and if you had the wherewithal to, you’d chuck a pillow in his face. Again.

“You know I hate this.” You give Suki an half-hearted glare, and he fights the smile growing on his face. “Why do you do this to me.”

“Because it’s hot,” Suki hums, and honestly, he deserves a pillow to the face as well. “C’mon, Baby—relax, let it happen.”

He starts stroking your thigh like that’s going to help any. It doesn’t, and the stick you use is no longer good enough to defend your impending orgasm, which is horrible, horrible news for the couch cushion. You’ll need to flip it over. Again.

(So—maybe you should just buy a new cushion, at this point. And avoid sitting in your usual spot on the couch.)

While the orgasm doesn’t catch you by surprise, the strength of it does. Your thighs squeeze around Suki’s head as much as they’re able—as much as he allows—and a hand finds Kat’s to hold on tight and squeeze. You feel Kat fall into your shoulder, or maybe you fall into his. Your body burns, buzzes, anything that starts with a b that sounds hot. You’re hot. On fire, actually.

You don’t open your eyes until the feeling subsides—in time to watch Suki pull away, face soaked, and the couch cushion even more so. Kat takes two fingers and runs them along your folds, only to dip them into his mouth and hum with contentment.

“Sweet, right?”

“Fuck yeah.”

And you, feeling the wet cushion under your back, haven’t decided whether you’re going to smother both (?) your boyfriends in their sleep.

(You make both of them sleep on the couch that night—the wet couch that’s their fault. Kat doesn’t get it, he didn’t even do anything. Suki accepts his fate with a knowing grin.)

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

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"already throwing that ass back on me, yeah?" hand steady at his base, he glides his shaft between your puffy lips and earns a soft mewl from you. "ready for me baby?" the answer is clear, heat radiating from your body feeling his tip catching your hole. leftover cum from his previous loads adds extra lubrication, making penetration more comfortable. "fuck, that's it." your pussy greedily swallows the first few inches of his cock and he lurches himself forward in one motion.

"i know that grip," he stills inside of you, hips paused. "you really think you've drained me? want you to make me a daddy today." the pace he sets is typical - rough, primal and laced with the lustful desperation he exerts on your body. father's day was a lame excuse for him to lure you into spending a lazy sunday stuffed full of his cock. round one began with your limbs tangled deep within the sheets, his morning wood persistent against your ass.

he wasted no time in pinning you against the counter either, abandoning your task of brewing his coffee. "you'll have plenty of time for all that domestic shit when you're a stay at home mom. now keep that ass up, haven't filled you properly yet." your lovemaking session in the kitchen wasn't enough to satiate your lover, who is already planning the next position and place to wreck your pussy.

he's so damn good with kids, you must admit. giving him a few wouldn't hurt, since he made a solid living doing hero work and teaching. "i think i'll make a pretty great dad." shouta bounces you on his cock, the sofa cushion vibrating under your combined weights. you're not sure if it's fatherhood he's particularly after or if he's hornier than usual, but there is no doubt he extends a more tender, patient demeanor towards children.

you're driven wild with need for him to mark you, claim you, knock you up. he wants, no - needs to be gifted fatherhood by his loving partner and the thought alone has him folding you into the meanest mating press. neither of you had kept count of how many times he's emptied himself inside you, let alone the total number of orgasms wrung from both your exhausted bodies by the end of the day. "i think i'm officially empty," he pulls you against his broad chest, head resting beneath his chin.

The sweet was small, dusted in white powder

Entirely too tempting to pass up on.

It was left on an unnatended tray in the outer pavilion of the rear palace, it looked harmless and appeared to be the remnantsa of one of the concubines.

Since it was destined for the wash bin anyway, you slipped it into your mouth, letting the rich, honeyed flavor melt over your tongue.

Heat spread like wildfire, pooling heavy and thick between your thighs.

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over you as your skin grew entirely too sensitive.

Even the light friction of your servant's robes felt like sandpaper against your chest, making your nipples harden instantly.

You trembled, dropping your cleaning cloth as a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips.

"You're making a terrible mess of things tonight."

The smooth, melodic voice made you gasp, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Jinshi was standing by the window, his gaze heavy and analytical as he tracked the erratic rise and fall of your chest.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, his usual angelic, otherworldly smile replaced by something far narrower. Far more dangerous.

"Your face is entirely flushed, and you're sweating," Jinshi murmured, closing the distance until the faint scent of incense clinging to his robes enveloped you.

He reached out, the back of his knuckles brushing lightly against your burning cheek.

You couldn't help it you blindly leaned into the cool contact, a soft cry leaving your lips as you practically begged for more of his touch.

Jinshi’s eyes darkened, a sharp glint of realization crossing his beautiful features. "Ah... I see.

It seems you've put something in your mouth that wasn't meant for you. A rather potent aphrodisiac, judging by how thoroughly it's ruined you."

Shame warred with the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing through your veins.

You dropped to your knees, bowing your head to hide your desperate expression. "M-Master Jinshi... please excuse me. I need to leave—"

"And go where?" Jinshi intervened, his voice dropping an octave into a rich, commanding purr.

He knelt down in front of you, his long, elegant fingers gently catching your chin to force your gaze up.

His expression was a dizzying mix of intense desire and cruel amusement.

"You can barely stand. If you wander out into the corridors like this, someone far less accommodating than me will find you."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, sending a powerful shiver straight down your spine.

"Since it’s my duty to keep order here... I suppose I can offer to lend you a hand."

The heat of his words hit you before his touch did, the reality of your predicament crashing down as Jinshi’s gaze trapped you.

You could only offer a weak, trembling nod, the aphrodisiac completely stripping away your ability to protest.

"Good girl," Jinshi purred, his demeanor shifting into something entirely dominant, stripping away the flawless facade of the ethereal bureaucrat.

He didn't waste another second.

Reaching out, he hooked his fingers into the collar of your servant's robes and pulled, the cheap fabric giving way with a sharp rip that exposed your flushed, sweating skin to the cool air of the pavilion.

You gasped, your hands instinctively coming up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists in a single, unyielding grip, pinning them easily over your head against the floor.

"Don't hide from me," he commanded, his voice tight with an underlying current of feral hunger.

"You wanted a taste of something that wasn't yours. Now you belong to me until every drop of that poison is worked out of your system."

He leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.

It wasn’t the gentle touch of a master taking pity; it was demanding, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth to claim you entirely, drinking in your frantic, needy whimpers.

While his mouth kept you thoroughly occupied, his free hand slid down the length of your body, bunched up your skirts, and found the slick, burning junction between your thighs.

The moment his long, elegant fingers brushed against your dripping slit, your hips jerked upward, an unbidden cry muffled against his lips.

"Look how ruined you are," Jinshi whispered against your mouth, a dark, satisfied smirk tracing his lips as he felt the intense heat radiating from you.

Without hesitation, he drove two fingers deep inside your tight, soaked cunt.

The sudden fullness made your eyes roll back, your walls clamping down around his fingers in a desperate, pulsing rhythm.

Jinshi let out a low, guttural growl at the sheer tightness of you.

He began to pump his fingers in a ruthless, unyielding pace, deliberately hooking them upward to strike the sensitive bundle of nerves inside you over and over again.

"M-Master Jinshi—ah! Please!" you cried out, your head tossing from side to side as the pleasure became blinding.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, accelerating the wicked pace of his fingers, sliding them entirely in and out of your dripping heat, turning you into a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him.

"Beg for it."

"More... please, more!"

Instead of giving you his length, Jinshi suddenly withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling agonizingly empty.

Before you could protest, he shifted down your body, parting your thighs wide and anchoring his hands firmly on your hips.

He leaned in, his beautiful eyes darkened with pure, primal lust, and buried his face directly into your soaked cunt.

The first swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit was so intense your back arched entirely off the floor.

Jinshi was relentless.

He used his tongue with devastating, expert precision, lapping up your sweet, juices while keeping his thumb pressed firmly against your entrance.

Denying you the fullness you craved. He sucked on your hyper-sensitive nub, his breaths hot and heavy against your dripping flesh, driving you ruthlessly toward the edge.

The coil inside you tightened to an unbearable point. "Jinshi—I'm going to—I can't—!"

"Come for me," he ordered against your slick flesh, his voice a commanding rumble that sent shivers straight to your core.

With a few more fierce, demanding strokes of his tongue, your body fractured.

You screamed out his name as a violent, rolling orgasm tore through you, your thighs twitching as your juices spilled heavily onto his lips and chin.

Jinshi drank it all in, looking up at you with a completely feral, unhinged expression, his face smeared with your slickness.

The sight of him so thoroughly undone by your pleasure was the final blow to your sanity.

But he wasn't done with you. His own patience had completely worn thin.

He stood up, unfastening his heavy, elaborate robes with frantic urgency until he was completely bare.

His cock was massive, throbbing, and slick with pre-cum.

He knelt back down between your trembling legs, his large hands gripping your thighs so hard his fingers dug into your skin, pinning you down.

"You're not finished yet," he growled, his voice completely stripped of its usual elegance.

He aligned his tip with your pulsing, dripping entrance and, with one brutal, unyielding thrust, buried himself entirely inside you to the hilt.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat as the sheer fullness of him stretched you to your absolute limit.

The sudden, unyielding invasion made your vision blur, your fingers digging frantically into the cool floorboards of the pavilion as your body tried to accommodate his massive size.

Jinshi didn't give you a moment to adjust.

The restraint he had maintained all evening was completely shattered, burnt to ash by the sight of you unraveled beneath him and the heady scent of your arousal.

He gripped your hips with a bruising force, his knuckles turning white as he anchored you down and began to drive into you with a feral, relentless rhythm.

"Ah! Master Jinshi—hangh!" Your cries were frantic, broken by the heavy, wet sounds of your bodies slapping together.

Every thrust was deep, brutal, and thoroughly dominant.

He wasn’t matching the careful movements of a court gentleman; he was taking you like a man possessed, his breaths coming in ragged, guttural growls against your neck.

He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth biting down sharply on the sensitive skin of your collarbone, marking you as his own while he ruthlessly claimed your heat.

The combination of the lingering aphrodisiac and his savage pace drove you straight back over the edge.

Your walls clamped down hard around his thick length, pulsing in desperate, tight waves that threatened to break his control entirely.

"Look at me," Jinshi commanded, his voice a rough, gravelly growl.

You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze.

His eyes were entirely blown out, dark with an unhinged, primal lust that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

He quickened the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, shallower, and incredibly intense, targeting the ultra-sensitive bundle of nerves inside you with devastating accuracy.

"You're mine," he growled against your lips, slamming into you one final, deep time. "All mine."

The words triggered a violent, rolling orgasm that tore through your body, your internal muscles squeezing him with an agonizing tightness.

The overwhelming sensation shattered what little control Jinshi had left. With a low, animalistic groan.

He buried himself to the absolute hilt, his entire body locking up as he poured his thick, hot release deep inside your pulsing core.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of your ragged, synchronized breathing.

The manic energy that had consumed the pavilion slowly dissipated, leaving behind a thick, suffocating warmth.

Jinshi stayed buried deep inside you for several long moments, his heavy frame pressing you into the floor as he recovered.

Slowly, he pulled away with a soft, wet sound, causing a warm mixture of your shared fluids to spill out onto your thighs.

The sudden emptiness made you shiver, the cool night air hitting your thoroughly wrecked body.

Instead of turning away with the cold indifference of a master who had used a servant, Jinshi gathered you into his arms.

He pulled your trembling, exhausted body against his chest, unheeding of the sweat and slickness coating both of you.

His long fingers gently brushed the damp hair away from your face, his expression softening back into something resembling his usual beauty.

Though his eyes still held a lingering, possessive dark glint.

"Rest," he murmured softly, his voice returning to its smooth, melodic tone as he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead.

You closed your eyes, completely spent, the artificial heat finally fading into a deep, heavy exhaustion.

As you drifted off, the tight grip of his arms around your waist made one thing abundantly clear.

DAY 10 - SEX POLLEN/SURPRISE HEAT OR RUT

"Don't touch it!"

"What? You scared of a little sparkling vine, princess?" Eddie laughed as he grabbed the glowing red vine that was on the floor of the tunnels. You hissed at the recklessness of the Alpha.

"There shouldn't be any of these things in here! Why are you touching it!? Aren't Alphas supposed to be cautious?" You argued, and he glared your way, wiggling the thing on your face.

"Then it's great for us to take it back to the station, so that everyone can have their assumptions! If there is a gate somewhere in these tunnels, we are fucked!" He yelled out, and you huffed at him.

You and Eddie had this cat-and-mouse thing going on for years. Ever since you got involved in last year's battle by mere chance and mistake, the closeness has made this game escalate. You had been a neighbor of Eddie's since you could remember, both raised in Forest Hills. You remember even smelling when he presented, and he probably had smelled yours too.

It was fun to bicker, mess with each other, and you both knew there was… something. Robin even stated that you and he are the 'perfect mates' for one another, but you tried to fight her on it, when deep inside, you were happy people thought that. But since Eddie never made a courting move on you, you just assumed that maybe it wasn't what it really looked like.

Maybe you saw something that wasn't there to begin with.

"It is still dangerous! What if it tracks where we are!? What if it's a trick for Vecna to know our location!?" He thought for a moment, snarling a bit as he looked down at the piece of jiggly vine he had in his hand. It glowed red in some places, and it sort of pulsed.

"If it did, we would have already been attacked! Perfect chance to take out two of the people going against him!" He argued back, and you stepped back at the tone, which made him sigh. "Didn't mean to use the Alpha tone—"

"Drop it."

He looked at you for a moment before he turned and started walking away, your eyes widening as he didn't listen to you. You rushed to his side, snatching the thing off his hand. It was slimy, sort of, and warm.

"What the fuck are you doing—!" Before he could grab it back, you threw it on the ground and stepped over it, smashing it completely. It made a squelching sound, only for spores to come out, like a gas bomb. You coughed as it filled your lungs. It burned, and it smelled putrid. Eddie covered his face as he screeched, growling at what just happened.

"FUCK!" Your eyes were glistening, a whine vibrating in your throat as you felt yourself shiver for some reason. Eddie coughed as he grabbed your shoulders, worry washing over him at the sounds you were making. He couldn't risk being mad now, not when you seemed affected by whatever that was.

"Let's get out of here!" He guided you away as you both coughed, leaving the gas cloud behind you. Finally reaching the stairs, he let you climb up first before following right behind. The sun hit your body, and you crawled on the grass, lying down on it as you tried to catch your breath.

Eddie immediately closed the hatch door, coughing as he let himself fall right beside you, looking up at the sky.

"I'm sorry—" You whined as you felt your eyelids growing heavy, his scent engulfing your lungs, a sweet maple kind of smell falling from the trunk of a tree. He wiped his face, his eyes closed, feeling himself relax, and he knew something was wrong. He moved his hand as best as he could to get the walkie talkie from his belt, sending an SOS signal in morse code to the station.

"It's okay, I asked for help… Don't panic…" His voice was rough, trying his best to reassure you that it was going to be fine. He had to protect you, letting you feel safe, somehow. Your whines fell silent, and he saw you had fainted. He couldn't move his body, his eyes widened, and he did his best to yell for help. "HERE!"

He kept yelling, and the moment he heard his name being called by Joyce, he let his eyes fall, finally knowing they had been spotted and were going to be helped.

He just needed to sleep a little.

—

You awoke on a bed downstairs in the basement of the radio station, normally a place where someone could crash if too tired from a crawl or exploration trip.

Your eyes drifted to your left, to the bed next to yours, seeing Eddie sleeping as well. Your body felt lightweight now, no longer aching or your lungs didn't feel like they were squeezing into each other, ready to pop.

"You're awake!" You heard Vickie cheer, standing on your right side, making you jump a little.

"Yes… I'm… I don't know what happened…" She hummed as you sat up without any problems. Vickie grabbed your wrist and checked your pulse for a few seconds.

"Your pulse is still fast… You don't feel sick? Or like you are having palpitations?" She asked, and you shook your head. The only thing you felt was dryness in your throat, an itch on your skin, and as if you were hot all over.

Before you could say any of that to her, Will rushed into the room, making the two of you look at him.

"I'm sorry! Um, I'm happy you are okay, but— Vickie, is there a chance you could come with me to the Wheelers? I think Mike is presenting or is having a stroke!" Will was in tears, and Vickie frowned, looking down at you.

"There's no one at the station… Robin and some are still exploring, and I'm sure Joyce will come with Will and me… Are you okay? Are you strong enough to check on Eddie?" You blinked a few times, and suddenly you felt like you wanted her gone. You wanted to be left alone with the Alpha in the room.

"Yeah… I feel okay… Just go." You gave her your best smile, and she reciprocated before rushing out with Will. Your head whipped back to the Alpha next to you. Your lips felt dry, and your body moved on its own as you stepped out of bed. You stood next to his sleeping form, and fuck— Something was wrong.

Something was dreadfully wrong because you wanted to jump on him. You wanted to ride this Alpha. You wanted to be knotted by him. You have always wanted to, but this time, it's with purpose. This time, it felt as if you didn't get it; you would die.

You gulped heavily, now feeling your eyes burn, and those palpitations Vickie mentioned somehow made their appearance right this second. Your nostrils flared, and you could just know the moment you were left alone with him.

Your hand reached over, trembling, hovering over his face, then his neck, and you felt like you were about to explode. Slick started pooling in your underwear, and you could feel tears running down your face because of how overwhelmed you were feeling.

This wasn't something you had dreamed about before. You had wanted Eddie like this many times, but you would have never told him. No one was ever going to know, and now it seemed as if you couldn't hold back any longer. Your fingers twitched just inches from his face. You shouldn't touch him, you shouldn't even be hovering over him like this, but your body was yelling for him. Screaming for release.

You were stronger than whatever this thing was. You had to be. You could deal with this on your own, but you knew it was going to hurt for god knows how long. Your breathing was heavy, labored, sweat all over your forehead as you started retreating your hand.

But your wrist was grabbed in a tight grip, and in just a few seconds, you felt yourself being yanked onto the bed, bouncing on top of it as a form covered your own. Your legs were still draped over the edge of the bed, but your eyes couldn't leave the brown ones that were looking down at you intently.

More slick gushed out of you as you saw Eddie panting on top of you. His scent changed instantly to that of arousal. You whined underneath him, your right wrist still being gripped by his left one. He was caging you onto the bed, the palm of his right hand next to your head.

"Something's… wrong…" He could barely talk, and all you could do was nod. He clenched his eyes tightly, and his skin glistened with sweat. "You need to get out… Fuck—"

Your free hand reached up to rub against his cheek, and this was selfish. Masquerading this situation as the only opportunity to be with him the way you had always wanted to, instead of fighting. His eyes met yours, pupils blown, the similarity of a rut very apparent in his features, as well as the inside of his pants.

"We can help… each other out…" You breathed out, and he choked on air, his chest rumbling, and his mouth got closer to yours, and your body shivered in pure need. Your scent was driving him insane, and you knew he didn't want to overstep, that he didn't want to do something you didn't want to. "I— It's gonna hurt… more… if we don't…"

He pondered for a second, and you could feel how hot he was running. He looked away for a second, as if trying to contain himself, but whatever was going on, you both knew you were fucked. He turned your way again, his lips brushing against yours.

"Are you conscious enough to say this?" He asked almost in a choke, and you wanted to cry from how much care he was putting into consent. Even in the frantic state you two were in, there was still care, and a line that was paper-thin, ready to be broken.

"Yes… Are you?" You asked back, and he nodded quickly, a drop of his sweat falling on your cheek.

"Yeah… Fuck— Whatever it is, it fucking hurts…" You gulped and took the leap yourself. You clashed your lips against his, unleashing a battle of tongues, teeth clashing, and finally getting your legs up on the bed, spread for him so he could sit in between.

He dry humped you, making you moan into his mouth, feeling his hard cock over all the layers of clothes. You were probably drenched through your pants as well. In another case, this would have been a little embarrassing, but he seemed to like it as he grunted into your mouth the more he rubbed himself against you.

"Eddie, the clothes— I'm suffocating," You were gasping into his lips, feeling the room growing smaller, the air was thicker, and it was hard to breathe it in. He kneeled up, ripping his shirt over his head, and he hurriedly helped you get undressed. Strings of your slick followed as he peeled off your underwear.

"God, Omega…" You felt something inside you click. Something feral, and you felt your entire body flush, and you clenched around nothing at all. You purred at the attention as he looked down at your naked center. "You like that, huh…?"

You licked your lips, instincts winning over as you felt yourself burning in your belly, tightening, intestines twisting into themselves as slick kept gushing out from you like a fountain. You turned around, getting on all fours, and then proceeded to lie your chest to the mattress, presenting your ass to him.

"Alpha… Please…"

Seconds later, you were being railed into the bed, and the only sounds in the room were your moans, his grunts, the bed creaking, and the squelching in between your bodies. The heat never left, not for a single second, but it just progressively got worse.

When he flipped you to look down at your face, you could see Eddie in a way you never thought you would be able to see in your life. He looked so good when wrecked like this. He kept calling your name as his pace never slowed down. He kissed your calf as he held your leg over his shoulder.

Even in this haze of lust, you still found that action the most enticing of all.

"Fuck— My knot is—" You nodded desperately, meeting his thrusts as his eyes looked down between your bodies. His hair was stuck to his face from the sweat, and you felt yourself melting underneath him.

"Please, Eddie… Alpha…" And that did it. His knot started showing at his base, getting harder to thrust in and out of you, and all you did was cry out his name as you begged for him to lock inside of you. "Oh god, please, please, please…"

You were begging, head thrown back into the pillow, mouth open as he kept giving the final thrusts. His mouth fell to the crook of your neck and shoulder, and you wished that he would bite down.

He moaned loudly, growling as he came inside of you, locking his knot in your core, his seed shooting out to paint your insides white. Your eyes widened, your body trembled, and your hands gripped at his back like a lifeline. You were probably marking him all over, but you felt like you were crumbling over as you came around him. You were milking him till the last drop, and you didn't want it to stop.

But the clouds lifted.

As soon as you two climaxed, the air became pure again. The haze was gone. And everything became clear once more. You could feel him breathing heavily on top of you, and you didn't know what to say or what to do. What— What if he thought it was all a mistake? What if he regretted everything? What if he stops talking to you after this?

"You with me, princess?" You were still trembling underneath him, realization falling of what you two had done. He pulled his head back, and his voice was shaky as he spoke. "I almost bit you there… Fuck… This was like a rut, but out of nowhere and so intense…"

You were trying to center yourself, closing your eyes as you felt him pulsing inside of you. You nodded, feeling shame all over your body because guilt started seeping in.

"Yeah… It felt like a heat to me… I'm… I'm sorry…" His eyes stared at your features, and his hand came to cradle your face, making you open your eyes.

"Hey… I can smell your distress… No need to apologize, we helped each other out—"

"And now you will tell me to forget it, right?"

He froze at that, looking down at you as if you had gone crazy. You weren't meeting his gaze at all, and he sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against yours.

"No… I was not gonna say that." Your eyes finally met his, your heart pounding as if you had just run a marathon. "Whatever just happened, even as fucked as it was… I'm kind of glad it did."

"What?" You asked incredulously, and he let out a nervous chuckle, nodding.

"Yeah, uh… Unless you never felt that… tug-of-war situation going on between us… Which might make me look like a jerk, and an actual knothead right now, and oh god, I have to stop talking—"

You cut him off, hands moving to the back of his head to pull him into a deep kiss. He smiled in between, his arms wrapped around your body, holding you close to his. When you pulled away, you were chirping, which made Eddie's chest rumble with pride. A happy Omega. That's all that mattered now.

"I think nature got tired of us doing that little game of ours, too… right?" He smiled, dimples showing and all, and then it just fell, his head turning towards the door, and quickly pulling the blanket all over your bodies.

Vickie knocked on the door, almost shyly.

"Um… When you guys are ready… could you please come upstairs?"

Oh… people were at the station… for a while now.

—

Eddie stood next to you, holding your hand tightly as an angry Dustin Henderson stood before you, a table in the middle, and a very familiar vine that you had stepped on a few hours ago.

"So, uhm, what's wrong?" You asked nervously, seeing Steve leaning against the wall, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. Robin proudly chipped in, smiling widely.

"I mean, I am thrilled that it happened, because, FINALLY! Got you two together! So, I am super excited because I always told Steve that you and Eddie were meant to be mates—"

"Robin, for fucks sake…" Steve grunted, and while you were embarrassed, Eddie stood proud.

"Oh, yeah, if it weren't for my amazing sense of smell… The poor pups would have… heard something they shouldn't be hearing at this age." Dustin rolled his eyes and finally pointed at the vine on the table.

"Robin, we heard worse. Now, care to tell me what you did to this thing?"

"I… stepped on it?" You smiled innocently, and Dustin gave an exasperated sigh, and then Eddie intervened.

"Wait… Did this… Thing, whatever the fuck this is, have anything to do with what happened down there?" He asked, and Dustin gave him a nod and a fake smile.

"It did! Good job, Eddie!" The Alpha growled at the pup, who took a step back, but another growl filled the room, and Eddie looked at Robin, who was glaring at him, with a smile on her face. You stopped the quarrel between the two Alphas and stepped forward, examining the vine.

"So this thing might have triggered like a placebo of a rut and heat?" Dustin sighed heavily and then shook his head.

"No. It's a new thing Vecna does, which kind of triggers you to do your deepest desires, or some shit like that. It was in a book I found in the Upside Down— Nevermind, point is, you should have just LEFT IT!"

You and Eddie stood there, and you finally turned around and pointed your finger at him.

"I TOLD HIM TO DROP IT! IT'S HIS FAULT!" Eddie's eyes widened, only to harden afterwards.

"WHAT!? You stepped on it, princess! If you hadn't, we wouldn't be getting scolded right now!"

Robin stood next to Steve, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And I thought them finally fucking would stop their bickering."

Robby wakes up already on edge. You’re in the bathroom getting yourself ready for the day, leaving the bed cold and empty, and Robby groans as he sits and then stands. He knows it’s risky. Pretending to be your mate when that’s the one thing he craves more than anything else. When it’s the one thing that might, just might, be true. It’s a recipe for disaster – confusion, heartbreak, worse – but he just can’t resist the thought of having you on his arm for as long as he can get you. And the most tantalizing part is that he knows, deep in his bones, that it could become real. You could discover how much you like the feel of his arm around your waist, him grabbing you another drink, his soft and constant attention. In a way, it feels like more of an audition than a performance.

You emerge from the bathroom, tearing him from his train of thought. With your hair in loose waves around your shoulders framing out your face, Robby thinks you’re breathtaking. Then his eyes move on from your face. You’re wearing another turtleneck, but this time it’s a dress – a very, very form-fitting black ribbed-knit dress. High heels that make your calves and ass downright ridiculous. More damn nylons, these ones dark and disguising. That dress is hugging you everywhere, a devious mix of modest and sinful that has his mind reeling. Everything hidden but everything on display. Robby can’t look away from the swell of your stomach into your hips and waist, so plush and full. He hates himself for the word that comes to mind, but it’s the only thing he can think about: Breedable.

“Did you hear me, Michael?”

Robby’s eyes snap back to your face. He’d been too busy imagining getting you pregnant to listen to you speak like some grody alpha misogynist. He swallows hard and lets out a long, slow breath. “Sorry, I spaced out a second. What were you saying?”

“Just that you need to get ready,” you reply, nudging him in the shoulder. “So distracted by a couple hip dips that you can’t even think?”

Robby raises his eyebrows. “Hip dips? Must’ve missed that one in anatomy 101.”

“That’s what you’re staring at, isn’t it?” You brush your hands down your sides, nervously stealing glances at yourself in the mirror. “I know I’m a little bigger than the last time I wore this dress, but I think it still looks okay on me.”

Robby realizes that the tone in your voice is shame. It’s like someone just unpinned a grenade in his stomach. He hates that anyone or anything has ever made you feel insecure over that perfect fold in your side where his thumb would slot so nicely to hold you close. Voice careful and calculated, he says, “Sweetheart, I wasn’t staring because it’s a bad view. You look gorgeous.”

Your blush is deep and pink and instant. Eyes averted, you squeak out, “Thank you. Now get dressed.”

Breakfast is uneventful. You parents won’t enter interrogation mode until the party that afternoon when they’ll be able to get Robby away from you, so it’s borderline pleasant all sitting around their big dining room table passing around fruit and pastries. Borderline. There are still comments about your career choice, why you aren’t a mom yet, those sorts of things, but it stays polite enough that your heartrate keeps steady. Your brother and his wife and their gaggle of kids arrive mid-morning, which eases plenty of the social pressure since your parents immediately reroute to their grandkids.

By the time guests start arriving, you and Robby have successfully managed to avoid any stressful conversation topics and spend most of your time together on the periphery, hanging decorations at your mom’s and sister-in-law’s orders until the whole place is covered in sneezy flowers and sparkles. Robby’s hand constantly on your lower back between steps keeps you tethered, his muttered jokes keeping you in good spirits even when your mom makes nitpicky comments about your body while laying out the extensive spread of food.

But, as soon as the party’s starting full force, everyone’s all over you. It’s been a long time since you’ve visited your hometown and your parents know and have invited everybody, so it’s an onslaught of distant relatives, childhood friends, and even teachers. And every single one of them just has to give their opinion on your career choice. Most of the time, they aren’t even terribly interested in Robby, more committed to squirreling away salacious stories about the omega who thinks she can be a real doctor.

You’re so wrapped up in being passed around like a newborn baby at their first social outing that you hardly notice your mom and dad stalking up, waiting for their moment to pounce.

Your father’s hand finds your shoulder, rattling you into focus. Robby’s hand flexes instinctively into the small of your back when he feels you tense; his attention follows yours.

Dad’s smile borders on predatory. “Enjoying the party, you two?”

Robby answers on your behalf the way your dad wants. “Everything’s beautiful. It’s great to meet so many people from her life and I can’t wait to hear your anniversary toast, sir.”

He barely acknowledges the comment, looking right at you and asking, “You’ll let us have a word with the doctor, right, dumpling?”

“Of course.” You give Robby an apologetic look. “Don’t go too hard on him, though.”

Robby gives you a smile that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but only makes your nerves bubble. “We’ll be fine, baby. Go have fun with your old friends.”

The moment you’re out of earshot, joining up with a circle of people you know from high school, your mom and dad are on Robby like sharks.

It’s your mother first, still watching you suspiciously. “I see there’s no ring yet. What are you waiting for?”

Robby replies modestly, “There’ll be one as soon as she tells me she’s ready.”

Your father frowns, brows furrowed at the idea of an alpha waiting on an omega for anything. “That’s awfully modern of you.”

The picture of cool, Robby reasons, “Your daughter’s the only omega in emergency medicine in our state; we’re big fans of modern.”

“We weren’t necessarily pleased with that decision either,” your father sighs. Acting like it’s a magnanimous stance, he goes on, “Now, I’m all for omegas taking up their own careers, but we would’ve preferred something more sensible. Teaching, maybe, or a specialty that isn’t so taxing on the delicate hormonal balance.”

“Something with more time off for the family,” your mother agrees. “You want pups, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“Of course,” he replies simply, watching your soft form across the room as you laugh with one of your cousins. “As many as she’ll give me.”

Your dad claps him on the bicep and chuckles, “That’s a good man.” Then he eyes him a bit more carefully. “I’m sure you understand that, as our only omega child, her finding the right alpha is incredibly important to us.”

He smiles just enough, watching you as a guy around your age approaches with a possessiveness on his features that Robby doesn’t like at all. “Of course.”

“She’s just always been too independent for our liking,” your mother goes on, “never agreeing to move back home until she’s married, going down to Pittsburgh when she could’ve gone to her daddy’s alma mater here in New York. We’re hoping that you can…well, ‘tame her’ may be a bit strong, but balance her, I suppose. She needs more-”

“I am truly so sorry to interrupt you and cut this short,” Robby assured as his attention beelines, “but I’m not a fan of the way that alpha is speaking to your daughter and I can’t just watch that without doing something.”

More than a little impressed, your father straightens up and gestures toward you. “By all means, doctor.”

Robby snatches a a cocktail off the first roaming waiter he sees to try to increase his subtlety as he drops right into your conversation. As he snakes his arm around your waist, fingers splayed over your ribcage, he doesn’t even look at the other alpha as he smiles at you. “Brought you another drink like you asked, sweetheart.”

You turn into his touch, pressing a hand to the center of his chest and giving him genuinely grateful eye contact. As you take the cocktail from his hand, Robby cuts a glance over at the alpha whose scent is flaring all over you and then tilts your face up by the chin. Searching your eyes only briefly, he presses a deep, charged kiss to your lips. A kiss that stakes a claim and sends a clear message – and makes you melt. You lean a bit higher and kiss him back. If it weren’t for the setting, you’d be deepening it, grabbing for him, desperate for more. But, for now, you pull back with hazy eyes and smile. “Thank you, Michael.”

He swipes some of his saliva from the corner of your lip, the gesture wildly intimate, and replies, “Anything for you. Who’s your friend, love?”

“This is Mark.” You grimace through the introduction, “He was my boyfriend in high school.”

Robby gives him a firm handshake that you can’t help notice is a little bruising when Mark winces. Your stomach flutters at Robby’s small show of dominance. “Good to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Mark straightens up and looks him over. “So you’re the boyfriend? Finally an alpha good enough for the pickiest omega in the world.”

Robby kisses the top of your head, tightens his arm around your waist, and chuckles, “Can’t be too picky if she’s settling for me.”

He gives you a tight, rueful smile. “Must’ve just dated all of us poor saps for fun then. He have any idea how many unmated alphas you’ve left in your wake?”

Robby places a heavy hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Ohohoh, you did not just slut shame my omega.”

Your heart pounds.

Not ‘her.’ Not ‘my girlfriend.’ My omega. A complete, total claim of your being. Ownership. The sound of him saying it shoots a fire directly between your thighs, which you rub together beyond pathetically.

Mark crosses his arms over his chest and scoffs, “That really doesn’t bother you? Knowing how many alphas have used her up before you could even-”

Robby’s fingertips curl cruelly into his flesh, his other hand lowering  to your hip, warm and protective and drawing your body into the fold of him. “I’m going to kindly suggest you stop talking now.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I don’t want to make a scene at my future family-in-law’s party,” he replies, leaning in close and using a tone even tougher than you’ve heard the other times he’s defended you now that has has permission to behave like you’re his, “but if you’re rude to her one more time, I’m going to scruff you like the pup you are, drag you outside, and honestly just beat the shit out of you because I’m a head taller and a foot broader and I will never let someone disrespect my omega.”

Mark’s turning on his heels in another direction before Robby even has the last word out.

When Robby looks down at you, his warm brown eyes are careful. “Too much?”

Beyond breathless, you shake your head. “Just right.”

Your parents call everyone together for toasts around the oversized, ornately decorated anniversary cake. You zone out while your dad goes on and on about your mother being the perfect omega partner all these years because Robby’s hand is now so low on your back and toward your hip that he’s basically palming your ass and his hand is so big and he looks so handsome and he smells so good. Like a perfect mug of tea and, before you can even help it, you’re leaning your head against his arm, breathing him in, suppressing the purring that’s threatening at your stomach.

Robby lifts his glass for the toast, which cues you to do the same. If he hadn’t, you’d stay completely lost in him. As the champagne hits your tongue, it mingles with Robby’s scent and you feel unbelievably drunk on both.

Once your mom’s cut the cake and fed a bite to your dad like on their wedding day, slices get handed out to everyone and then it’s time for dancing, the sugar and alcohol hitting everyone as the evening picks up. Robby gives you a peck on the cheek and suggests, “What do you say, honey, care for a dance? I’ll try not to step on your feet.”

You take his hand in yours, rapt at how big his is compared yours, and tell him, “I’d be more worried about my feet if I were you. It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to dance with me.”

“You can step on my feet all you want,” he chuckles and tugs you toward the center of the room where your parents and a few older couples with more confidence have kicked off the dancing. He drops one hand to the slope of your hip while the other stays tight on yours. “I may be a little out of practice, so bear with me.”

You step closer into the embrace, bodies touching as the music swells and you start moving your feet in time. “We can practice together.”

Despite his warning, Robby’s leading you in the dance like he does ballroom every weekend in his spare time. His every step is confidence embodied, graceful and cool like he is when he’s leading a major trauma. Precise. Practiced. Certain. It’s addictive, the way he moves. The way he holds you devastatingly close, murmuring things you can’t make out against your ear, his breath hot. With your nose pressed into his neck, you find yourself dizzy and drifting, your cheeks heating up and your belly tightening with desire. 

Slick pooling in your black lace thong.

Oh, god.

When the realization finally hits, embarrassment and dread fill you at once. You swallow hard, hold your breath, and mutter, “I need some air for a second.”

Before he can even question it, you’re slipping away from him, rushing, and he swears he can see panic on your expression as you leave him there confused.

Robby returns to your shared bedroom a few minutes later after scouring the party only to find it empty, the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. He knocks carefully on that door, cracks it open, and calls, “Are you alright? You rushed out of there pretty fast.”

You assure way too quickly: “I’m fine!”

Robby’s sense of danger sparks when he realizes that the shower and bathroom fan running stop him from being able to smell you. He can’t tell if you’re actually upset or not, can’t get a hint to what’s happening inside your mind, which means he can’t help from pressing, “What’s going on? I don’t want to go in there, but I will if I have to.”

The water stops a second later. You know he’s telling the truth; Robby would storm Fort Knox if he thought you were in need. He listens closely to the sounds of you wrapping your hair and your body in towels before approaching the door. With your fingers on the handle, you tell him, “Take a couple steps back first.”

He does what you say, moving over to the desk chair in the corner to give you space. When you emerge from the bathroom, he knows right away why you were hiding out. It’s faint, still, from the shower and the timing, but there’s that caramel and chocolate undertone he’s only gotten to smell once before. The smell of your need. He curses under his breath and focuses on every other smell in the room. Unfortunately, most of them are made up of you.

“Can you turn around?” You mutter, “I wanna get dressed before I kill myself from embarrassment.”

Robby’s fist clenches at his side. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry,” you murmur softly. He does as you asked, though, and you dig through your suitcase for pajamas. With your internal temperature slowly and steadily rising, you opt for a skimpy tank top and shorts, which you roll at the waist to let more of your skin breathe. “Okay, I’m decent. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Robby tries his best not to ogle you. Your hard nipples peeking through the fabric, your plush thighs, your wide hips, your- He shakes his head out as his cock starts to stiffen. Keep it together. Don’t freak her out. Swallowing hard and breathing through his mouth, he says, “You just had your last heat a month ago. Shouldn’t have another one for a couple months. Is everything okay?”

That earthy tea scent you’ve only experienced a few times with Robby leeches out of him, drawing you forward like he’s tugging a rope attached to your abdomen. Your voice tumbles out lazily, your eyes trained on Robby’s harsh masculine features. “It- it can be triggered early under the right conditions. You’re a doctor; you know that.”

Robby would take a step back if he weren’t already pressed into a corner. With every inch you move closer, your scent gets stronger and he feels his resolve getting weaker. Honey and tea make a perfect combination. It’s too delicious for words. “What’s happened since we left?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Not playing,” he grunts, staring up at the ceiling light to try to keep his cool intact. “Getting kinda hard for me to think over here.”

Voice thick with desire, you explain, “It’s you, Michael. You protecting me. Touching me in front of everyone like I’m yours. Treating me so good. Calling me all those names. And- and now your rut’s starting. I- I know you can’t tell yet, but- but it is. I can smell it.”

Robby rolls his shoulders. So that’s why he’s been so edgy today, ready to destroy everyone who bothered you.

You get closer again, trying to sniff him more, to ingrain his every atom into your breath. “You- you smell so good, Robby. Wanna- want you to-”

“Careful.” Robby keeps you at arm’s length with a firm hand on your shoulder. Fuck, your skin is so soft and so burning hot he can hardly believe he’s holding you back from mauling him the way he so, so badly wants. He growls lightly, “Careful, sweetheart. Please be careful right now.”

“I don’t wanna be careful with you.” You tilt your head so that you can kiss over the palm he was trying to use to stop you from getting worked up. You breathe deep at the scent gland of his wrist, burnishing your cheek with the smell of him. That submissive little gesture scratches the most primal part of his brain that wants to drown you in his scent so that every fucking person who walks past you can smell him and know you belong to him. “And I really, really don’t want you to be careful with me.”

Cedar floods your nostrils as Robby darkens his voice. One word rings through your being: Alpha. He orders, “Calm down. Now.”

You whimper away from him and scramble back onto the bed. In another second, you curl up around yourself against the headboard. Tears fall from your eyes immediately; the pain of being rejected by an alpha with your heat coming on hurts like nothing else. It burns your stomach and makes you feel so immeasurably guilty that you want to vomit. As your breathing speeds up toward hyperventilating, you squeak out, “I’m sorry; don’t be mad at me. Please, please don’t be mad at me.”

Robby’s throat tightens at the sight of you crying. He can’t handle the idea of making you cry. Against his better judgment, he climbs into bed, sits in front of your curled form, and touches your forearm so that you’ll look at him. “Shit, wait, honey, no, no, I’m not mad. I swear I’m not mad.”

You sniffle and pinch your eyes shut, willing the tears to stop even though you know they won’t until you’re very, very far away from the alpha you want – need – but can’t have for reasons your racing mind can’t even entertain. Your lip wobbles as you softly cry out, “But you don’t want me.”

Robby growls in earnest then, gripping the sheets in his fist to the point of tearing them, “I want you. So fucking bad.”

That idea is even worse. “Then what? What’s so wrong with me that you won’t let me be yours?”

Robby turns to you with brutal intensity in his eyes. Each of his hands cups one side of your face. His skin is searing hot. He practically snarls, “There is not a single goddamn thing wrong with you. You’re perfect. Every inch of you. You’re exactly what I want. Get that doubt out of your head right now.”

You blink back your tears and the sudden hope in your eyes almost makes his resolve crumble to pieces then and there.

He has to look away from you so that he can get out, “But I can’t- I won’t take advantage of you. If this is just your heat talking. That would be so wrong and I care about you too much for that. If I’m going to have you the way I want you, then I’m going to make sure you really want me first.”

Your breath speeds up again as you whisper, “Bring me my bag.”

Robby’s eyebrows wrinkle. “What?”

You huff and give his chest a shove that makes him laugh. “My bag, Michael.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His name on your tongue sounds so damn good that he’d do anything if you kept saying it. He presents you with your backpack and watches you dig around the pockets.

You take out a baby blue hard-cover notebook and explain, “I started this diary the first day of my residency. Half the entries are about you. More than half, really.” You start with the first page, reading aloud, “‘My attending, Dr. Robby, is maybe the most considerate alpha I’ve ever met. I feel so lucky to have him already.’” He watches your dainty fingers turning a few more pages. “‘Today Robby wore glasses in front of me for the first time and I couldn’t think for ten minutes straight. They made his eyelashes look so pretty. I couldn’t stop trying to get him to look at me all day.’”

Robby raises an eyebrow and smiles. “My eyelashes?”

“Yeah. You have nice eyelashes,” you tell him meekly. It’s ridiculously embarrassing to admit all this to him at once, but you want him so badly you’ll do anything to convince him of it. “This one’s from two weeks ago. ‘Robby treated an omega patient today and I was so jealous-’ that’s underlined three times, by the way ‘-which I know is completely ridiculous. He was nothing but professional and respectful, obviously, but every time his hands were on her I had this crazy urge to shove her out of the way so he’d touch me instead. I’m not even close to my next heat. This is getting ridiculous.’”

Suddenly Robby sits back and pulls you into his lap so you can feel him rumbling against you, the vibration of his chest soft and urgent and encouraging. You tentatively nuzzle into his neck, nosing along his beard until he gets the idea and bares his scent gland to you. Slick pools through your shorts and onto Robby’s dress pants when you breathe deeply. Your muscles are tight and warm and his smell is relaxing you into a soft kind of euphoria you’ve never felt. His satisfied little smile as he realizes the truth is so handsome you want to see it on a million of your babies. “Read me one more, kitten. Indulge me.”

Melting into his body at the pet name, you flip to the middle of the journal to your most recent entries. “Here, this one’s from yesterday morning: ‘I’m still thinking about Robby kissing me back when I started at the Pitt. I don’t know how to tell him that kiss meant everything to me when I’m so scared it meant nothing to him. Is this what mated couples always mean by ‘when you meet the one, you’ll know’? I thought that was some cryptic self-righteous garbage, but I’m starting to wonder if this full-body fuzzy warmth every time I think about him or see him or hear him is it. The knowing thing. But how do I tell someone ‘hey, I think you might be my mate’? Isn’t he supposed to tell me that? I hate this. I don’t know. It’s so confusing. All I know is that I need to be around him all the time or I feel crazy. I need him.’”

Robby’s cock is so hard he wants to scream. It’s like a third leg right underneath your pulsing wetness. He can feel the warmth of your slick as it soaks through your skimpy shorts; right about now he’s realizing you didn’t bother putting on underwear. He presses his nose to your neck and finally lets himself breathe your sweetness in, lets you soften his sharp edges, lets you worm your way into the cracks of his once-stone heart. He breathes against your ear, “I just wish I had something to show you I’ve been thinking about you the exact same way.”

You give him a too-adorable giggle as you shift your weight, rolling your hips to make him perfectly aware of just how much contact his erection has with your body. You tease, “Trust me, I can tell.”

He bites his lower lip and lets his head hang back a second, relishing in the not-enough friction and heat from your body. “Didn’t wanna mention that while we were trying to talk about our feelings.”

“I’m done talking about my feelings now.” With a deep breath, you fist his hair and meet his eyes, finding his pupils blown. Finally, so needy it’s starting to burn and hurt, you kiss him gently, like a prayer, and whimper, “My alpha.”

Robby’s control snaps.

How could it possibly keep bending under such agonizing pressure?

He flips you around, onto your back, and cages you between his arms. His mouth latches onto yours and every nerve ending sings with relief and with lust and with pure connection. He holds you as close as physically possible as he kisses you, lips parting yours. You can still taste a sparkle of champagne from the party on his tongue as he breathes into you, “Mine.”

“Yours. All yours.” You chase him for one more kiss and then bring shaky, useless hands to his dress shirt, clawing at it when you realize your fingers aren’t going to cooperate. “Please, Michael. Please. Off. Need you.”

“Losing your ability to form full sentences already?” Robby grins as he makes quick work of his buttons, flinging the shirt away onto the floor before turning his attention to you. God, he has no idea where to start. He wants everything. Right now. So he rucks up your tank top, manhandling your arms above your head so he can throw it aside. When he sees you laid bare beneath him like he’s imagined a thousand times over, he can’t breathe. The soft bounce of your full tits, the blush bright in your chest, that damn perfect curve of your stomach his to devour at last. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Then you bite your lower lip so innocently that he wants to scream. You look up at him with eyes full of hope and want. “Pretty?”

He shakes his head and laughs, finally allowing himself to touch you. He doesn’t go for your breasts right away. First, he grazes his thumbs over the fullness of your stomach, imagining you round with his family, allowing the completely primal, deeply instinctual alpha half of his brain to take charge. With his eyes trained on your belly, he breathes reverently, “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, I swear. You are…” he struggles to find the words as he leans down and kisses across your hips, licking a stripe from your navel to your sternum, desperate for you “…a goddess.”

You whine pitifully, toes curling, wishing nothing more than to have him filling you already. Locking your legs around his hips, you roll your body upward and kiss him and whimper and want. Your skin is made of shooting electricity and no amount of contact with him could ever be enough.

The mild, sweet scent of your slick invades Robby’s nostrils and he knows your need as viscerally as he knows his own. Kissing you hard, he insists, “You’re everything. You’re perfect.” Then he shoves your shorts down, brings his hand between your thighs, feels the hot wetness between them, and growls, “You’re mine.”

You can’t think as he pushes two fingers inside of you, met with zero resistance with your heat and your arousal working in tandem. He pumps them backwards, firmly pressing your g spot, thumb on your clit like he’s already mapped your body. You know this is right. That he’s your mate. It’s too easy for him to play you like an instrument, conducting the orchestra of your pleasure as simply as he breathes. It’s nothing like the way anyone else has touched you.

But it’s still not enough.

Your voice is rough and pathetic. Wailing and rising and unashamed. Your legs thrash and your chest heaves. “More. More.”

Robby laughs at your desperation, slipping in a third finger instead of giving you what you want just to watch your expression. Just to prove to himself how badly you want him. All of him. Still pumping his fingers into you, he undoes his belt one-handed and slips it off, teasing gently, “My needy little omega.”

Your pleading eyes answer the unspoken questions. Yes, you’re needy. Yes, you’re his. You can’t speak it but you can arch your back and moan for him and pray that your face is showing the truthfulness of your adoration.

Robby steps out of his pants and fists his fat, angry, leaking cock in his hand, leaving you missing being filled by anything at all. God, it’s monstrous. Gorgeous. An alpha fully erect in rut is always a beautiful thing to behold, but Robby is on a whole new level you’ve only seen in raunchy porn. So swollen with lust it looks almost painful. Veiny and thick. Flushed a deeper redder shade of his lovely tan skin. He shoves your legs back and lines himself up. Your eyes snap up to his as you feel his cock threatening at your entrance.

Then he stops.

Pauses.

He leans down again and takes your mouth with his. He spreads your legs wide with both of his hands and kisses you, tender and joyous, choosing you as much as taking you. Finally he shifts his hips slightly forward and notches just the sloppy wet tip inside of you, already enough to make you gasp. And he kisses your forehead, whispering one more time, “My omega.”

Then he’s pushing into you. Slow, steady, stretching. 

It’s so cheesy and it’s so stereotypical and it’s true: His cock feels like it was made for you. It’s splitting you open, wider open than you thought possible, but it’s perfect. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest. Every inch is better than the last and you’re already clamping down around him. Tears sting at your eyes not from any pain because there is none but from relief at him taking you how you need.

Still, when he hears you sniffle, Robby pauses. He stops his thrust and kisses the hollow space beneath your ear. “Tell me if it’s too much, baby. Not gonna hurt you. Never gonna hurt you.”

“S’not enough,” you correct. They’re not words but whimpers. Prayers. Pleas. You wrap your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and cry into a kiss. Tears break over from being so overwhelmed. He cares too much. He loves you too much. He feels too good. Pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck, you weep, “Thank you. So good. Love you. Love you, love you, love you.”

Even if it’s nothing more than heat babble, a future truth you’d usually save for later, hearing you say it is perfect to Robby. He finally sheaths himself fully into your begging cunt, the wetness beyond anything he could’ve expected. It’s not the first time he’s fucked an omega in heat, but it sure feels like it from the way you clamp around him, the way your slick drips onto his thighs, the way you’re outright shaking and sobbing because of how good he feels and how badly you want to be his.

The weight of his body on yours is intoxicating. Comforting. Perfect. Then Robby touches your clit and you’re in outer space. You can’t even hear yourself moaning anymore, too drunk on him, but it must be loud because Robby shushes you reluctantly, reminding you about the party still going on downstairs. You can’t listen. You can’t stop the crashing waves of pleasure that build inside of you and his hand over your mouth to muffle your screams only intensifies everything.

He thrusts faster and faster. His hand on your hip goes bruising with possessiveness. He laps at your nipples, bites at your shoulder, licks up your neck. Anything to have more of you. Your body is doing what it craves. Taking him. Holding him. Making space for him. Giving into the deep itch that lives at the base of your spine is beyond good. It’s perfect. Truly perfect. You’ve never felt an orgasm coming on like this: Every moment its own song instead of just a chorus. This isn’t a flood or a broken damn; it’s a whole damn tide, a gravitational phenomenon that slowly works through you.

When it becomes too much, the spark of it about to explode, you put your hand over his so he’ll let you speak. With all the energy you can muster, you press your sweating forehead to his and beg, “Knot me. Cum in me.” You scratch down his sides and bite his bicep and whine over and over, “Knot, please. Please, Michael. All I want. Need your knot. Can’t- can’t finish without it. Please please please.”

Robby – no, he’s Michael right now – looks at you with tears in his own eyes this time. “You really want that? Want my pups?”

Your nails pull half moons of blood to the skin of his shoulders as you nod hard and lock him close with your legs and whimper, “More than anything. Need- need to be yours. Really yours. Not just once. Not just now. Please, Michael. Fill me.”

The guttural groan that takes his body hostage as he gives you three final, sharp thrusts will forever imprint itself on your DNA. You feel him swell and that shoves you past the edge of control. You burst into embers around his cock and your bodies click into place together, the mutual orgasm making you both lose yourselves in the other. Lovesick. Gone. You see new colors in his eyes glued to yours and taste new flavors on his tongue as he falls apart.

When he’s pumped more cum into you than he’s released in years, Robby flips you around so you can sit in his lap as long as it takes his knot to soften. You’re totally pliant, keening in his arms, as he kisses everywhere he can find. Slumped forward on his body, every one of your breaths is a tiny moan that holds a tiny universe. He savors this moment with you. Your arousal will peak and ebb over and over for the next few days and he'll make sure to sate it whenever you need, but this is the first time he’s seen you lost in your heat, so beautiful and alive and peaceful. You’ve been claimed the way your biology constantly begs for and it’s led to the most glorious expression he’s ever seen on your sweaty, flushed face. Peace in its purest form.

Pressing more soft kisses to the side of your face as his knot softens back down, he murmurs, “Let me bring you some water, kitten.”

You cling to him closer and whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

“Alright, then,” Robby chuckles softly. He loops his arm beneath your ass and, like you weigh nothing, lifts you with him off the bed, using his rut strength to show off a little. Bringing you into the bathroom, he sets you on the counter, his cock still partially inside of you, just comforting you now, and fills a cup of water. Lifting it to your lips, he orders, “Open.”

Eyes still not quite focused, you nod and part your lips. He guides the glass up and carefully helps you drink it down. When you’ve finished off the whole thing, he sets it back on the counter and grabs a washcloth, loading it with cold water from the sink. His cock finally leaves your body and you immediately whine at the loss. He just smiles, though, and wipes away the sweat from your face and breasts, blowing cool air on the line of water he leaves behind to help lower your temperature. He swipes the cloth between your legs, too, and then rinses it out. Robby kisses your forehead and pulls your legs around his waist so he can carry you back to bed, where he lays next to you, allowing you to snuggle underneath his chin and breathe in the fullness of his scent.

Your clarity slowly returns. Robby watches color replace darkness in your eyes and feels you beginning to cool down in his arms. You pull back slightly and watch his peaceful eyes watching yours. Then you rub your fingers through his beard and muse, “You said you’ve felt this way for a long time. When did you know for certain? About me, I mean?”

Robby doesn’t even have to think about it to know the exact day. The exact second. He takes your hand in his, thumb playing with your palm, and says, “When that alpha attacked you in the ED.” Bodies pressed together, you feel his heart start thudding harder in his chest at the memory. “I haven’t gone feral since I was a teenager flooded with hormones all the time. But then I saw that disgusting man’s hands on you, hurting you, and-” His voice collapses into more of a growl than anything. Like he’s back in the moment, reliving it instead of replaying it. “I couldn’t take it. The idea that you’d been hurt when I should’ve been protecting you. I should’ve been protecting you and I- I wasn’t- I couldn’t-”

“Michael.” You take his feverish face in your small hands and think happy thoughts until your soft honey scent blooms more fully. His nose goes instinctively to your wrists. You’re his aromatherapy. You press kisses to his cheek until the worry lines around his eyes start to dissipate. “I’m here. I’m safe. You’re keeping me safe. I love you.”

His growling turns into rumbling when he hears you say it for the first time clear-headed. “You mean that?”

You nod and kiss him. “My alpha. My Michael.” As tears sting at your waterline, you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Love you so much. Never realized I could love someone like this.”

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing an outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the bastard he is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle.

Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot, again–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your skirt was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in dragged strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

Dustin Henderson had long realized that his social equity was largely comprised of a revolving door of sudo babysitters, self-appointed mentors, and siblings. Growing list ranging from his sister, an unlikely friend in Steve, and Mr. Clark. With the daunting, jagged horizon of Hawkins High looming over him, Dustin’s nerves weren't just frayed; they were unspooling.

He had heard the gospel of high school survival from his older sister for years. She’d described the transition from the familiar halls of Hawkins Middle to the asphalt expanse of the high school parking lot as a brutal demotion. For the socially unranked or the academically obsessed, the shift was less of a walk and more of a gauntlet. Previously, Dustin hadn't paid much heed to her cynical warnings. His sister was an anomaly in the social ecosystem of Hawkins: smart enough to be dangerous, friendly enough to avoid being a target, but possessing a ghost-like ability to inhabit the periphery. She was the girl with her nose buried in a paperback, tucked into the back corner of the library, wearing flared jeans and a quiet armor of indifference. People didn't shove her into lockers because they barely realized she was there.

But the "Summer of ‘85" had changed the weight of her words. After surviving interdimensional horrors, navigating a secret Russian subterranean base, and enduring traumas that should have been reserved for war veterans, Dustin had stopped viewing her advice as "big sister nagging" and started viewing it as actual insight. Then there was Steve Harrington. Steve had become the pseudo-older brother Dustin had never asked for but desperately needed in the absence of their father. Naturally, Dustin’s first instinct had been to play matchmaker. He’d told them both, with the bluntness only a thirteen-year-old can muster, that since Nancy Wheeler was out of the picture, his sister was the next logical choice. Neither had bitten. Steve was still nursing a bruised heart and a shattered ego over Nancy, and his sister? Well, Steve Harrington simply wasn't her type. She’d had enough run-ins with Tommy H. and Carol over the years to know that the "King Steve" era carried a stench she wasn't interested in, and no amount of Steve taking hits from Russians or swinging a nail-studded bat was enough to bridge that aesthetic gap.

The BMW pulled up to the curb of the Henderson house, its engine purring with a domesticity that felt at odds with the tension in the air. Their mother was out of town, tending to a sick aunt in Kersey, leaving Dustin to rely on Steve to skirt the edges of his curfew.

"Where’s your sister?" Steve asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the darkened house. There was no warm glow from the living room lamp, and the window to her bedroom was a void of shadows. The typical reading light extinguished.

"Probably out," Dustin sighed, adjusting his hat.

"Out? Out where?" Steve asked incredulously. To Steve, she was a constant, fixed point in the Hawkins map. She was the girl who sought sanctuary in the back of the library or the furthest table in the lunchroom, safely cocooned by her Walkman. "Your sister is always home. I’ve seen her leave the house for exactly three things: school, the library, and occasionally to save our lives from certain death."

"Not since July," Dustin replied, his voice dropping an octave. The events at Starcourt Mall hadn't just shaken her; they had cracked the shell she’d lived in for years. In the wake of that trauma, something entirely unexpected had bloomed.

"Is she... okay? Like I know she cracked some ribs and all but, is she lonely, or...?"

"I’d say she’s more than okay," Dustin replied, casting a side-eye at Steve, a humored, almost smug expression crossing his face.

"Then why isn't she home?"

"Date," Dustin said. He looked bored, genuinely confused as to why Steve was treating this like a front-page headline. In the last month, he’d grown accustomed to the shift. There had been no clandestine sneaking around. Just a week after the Fourth, she had walked through the front door on a Saturday afternoon, hand intertwined with a stranger's. Their mother had been ecstatic, thrilled to see her daughter finally engaging with the world of the living. Especially given the suitor's theatrical, albeit genuine, promise to have her home by the stroke of midnight before her glass slippers faded away.

Even Dustin found he didn't mind the guy. He was a refreshing change of pace. Someone who didn't talk down to him, who understood the intricacies of a D20 roll, and who could actually debate the merits of high-fantasy lore. During a three-person outing for ice cream and a stint at the arcade, Dustin realized the guy wasn't just tolerating him for the sake of it. He actually seemed to like hanging around. He wasn't just putting in time to get under his sister’s skirt.

"A date?" Steve repeated, his voice climbing an octave. "Your sister? The notorious 'do not touch me with a ten-foot pole, I find boys tedious' Henderson? She’s on a date?"

"Yes, Steve. Keep up."

"With who?"

Steve didn't have to wait for the answer. The silence of the suburban street was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of a dying muffler and the screech of old brakes. A beat-up GMC van, more rust than paint, came rattling around the corner, its headlights cutting through the dark like twin spotlights. It pulled up to the curb with a dramatic jerk, idling aggressively adjacent to Steve’s pristine BMW. Steve stared at the van and then at the silhouette visible through the driver's side window. His jaw tightened as the realization hit him like a freight train.

"You are shitting me." Steve deadpanned.

Dustin didn’t even look at Steve. He just leaned back against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the rusted GMC as the engine gave one final, hacking cough before falling silent. "Not shitting you, Steve. It’s been three weeks. Get with the program."

Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "Munson? Eddie Freak Munson? Dustin, tell me you’re joking. Tell me she’s doing some kind of rebellious social experiment."

"You sound jealous," Dustin remarked casually, reaching for the door handle. "It’s a bad look, Steve. Makes your forehead do that weird crinkle thing."

"I am absolutely not jealous!" Steve hissed, whipping his head around to glare at Dustin. "I am concerned! There is a massive, gaping chasm between 'being protective' and 'watching your friend’s sister climb into a van that definitely smells like the set of a Cheech and Chong film.' She needs to be careful. She’s smart, usually anyways, so why is she hanging out with a guy who can’t graduate high school?"

Dustin let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Steve, relax. Eddie’s a good guy."

"A good guy?" Steve bristled, his voice rising an octave. "I’m sure your mom doesn’t know, otherwise she’d be reeling."

"He’s nice to my mom," Dustin countered, his tone turning uncharacteristically firm. "He actually listens when she talks about her garden. He’s kind to her. And he’s kind to my sister. Do you know how rare that is? Most guys in this town look at her like she’s a piece of furniture or a puzzle they can’t be bothered to solve. You included."

Steve slumped back, his bravado momentarily deflated, but he wasn't ready to let it go. "Dustin, he’s a stoner. He sells drugs behind the wheel of that rolling tetanus shot. And he’s repeating his senior year for the second time. Pretty sure he’s got a criminal record. He’s a dead-beat."

Dustin paused with his hand on the door, his expression softening into something more serious. "It’s her business, Steve. Not mine, and definitely not yours. And for the record? He makes her laugh. Like, actually laugh. Not that polite little 'huff' she does when she’s being nice, but that loud, messy sound she hasn't made since before the mall. Since before everything went to hell."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at the van, seeing the faint, flickering orange glow of a lighter through the windshield. He remembered the haunted look in her eyes after they’d climbed out of the wreckage of Starcourt. The way she’d retreated so far into herself he wasn't sure she’d ever come back.

"Look," Dustin said, breaking the silence as he pushed the door open. "I’d like to get inside before I have to witness my sister necking with her boyfriend in the front seat of a GMC. I’ve seen enough trauma for one year. See ya, Steve."

Dustin hopped out, slamming the door and jogging toward the house without a backward glance. Steve sat in the idling BMW, the engine purring in stark contrast to the rattling beast parked twenty feet away. He watched the van for a long beat, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of a wild mane of dark hair leaning toward the passenger side. "Unbelievable," Steve muttered under his breath, a mix of genuine confusion as he peeled off the curb, headed home. ๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖

Inside the van, the air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco, old upholstery, and the lingering musk of teenage boy. The dashboard was a chaotic graveyard of cassette tapes, crumpled gum wrappers, and dice that rattled with every vibration of the engine. She leaned back against the worn vinyl seat, the metal of the door cold against her shoulder, watching the way the streetlights caught the rings on Eddie’s fingers as he drummed them against the steering wheel. He wasn't looking at the road anymore; he was looking at her, a lopsided, mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" She asked, voice barely a whisper.

"Like what?" he countered, his eyebrows shooting up toward his chaotic fringe.

"Like you’re waiting for me to do something impressive. Or like you’re trying to memorize my face for a police sketch."

Eddie chuckled, the sound deep. He reached out, his hand hovering before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his rings cool against her skin. "Neither. I’m just looking at you because you’re really pretty. Is that a crime now, Henderson? Am I going to be hauled off to Hawkins’ jail for being an appreciator of beauty?"

She felt that familiar heat rise to her cheeks. It was still so strange, the way he said things like that without a hint of irony. For years, Eddie Munson had been a fixture of the Hawkins background. A loud, abrasive blur of denim and hair who occupied the same social strata as the ghost she pretended to be. He’d been in Steve’s grade originally, but after two failed attempts at graduation, he was set to be a second-time repeat senior just as she was starting her own final year. Before July, she had effectively ignored him. She’d seen the boy who barked at people in the hallway and lived for the theatricality of being an outcast. Yet now she felt like an idiot, realizing how much she’d had let the noise of his reputation drown out the man beneath.

Everything had changed a few days after the mall. She had been a shell of a person, her body aching and mind fractured by the memory of the Starcourt shadows and the cold sterile walls of that Russian elevator. Needing to escape the suffocating concern of her mother and the frantic energy of Dustin, she hiked out to Skull Rock. At night, it was a den for wandering hands and cheap beer, but in the harsh light of a humid afternoon, it was a sanctuary.

Or, it was supposed to be.

She found Eddie there, tucked into a jagged crevice with an acoustic guitar and a pack of Marlboros. He’d looked up, ready to snap a witty remark at whoever was invading his territory, but the words had died on his tongue when he saw her. Her face was a map of the week’s horrors. A fading purple-and-yellow bruise blossomed across the cheekbone, a gift from a Russian soldier's fist. She had prepared a lie about a bike accident or a fall, the same one her and Dustin told their mother, but Eddie hadn't pressed. He’d simply moved his guitar to make room on the stone.

"Rough week?" he’d asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"Rough year," she replied, clutching the copy of The Hobbit to her chest like a shield.

He’d spent the afternoon with her, playing soft, meandering chords while she read. He didn't ask for the story behind the black eye, though his gaze lingered on it with a sort of quiet, protective anger. At one point, he’d looked at her and sighed exasperatedly. "You know, it’s really unfair," he’d murmured. "Most people look horrible when they get beat up. You? You manage to look even prettier, Henderson. Very distracting for a man trying to practice his scales."

That was the moment the wall started to crumble. They bonded over Tolkien when she told him how her dad used to read The Hobbit to her and Dustin before he walked out. And Eddie had listened with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world. He was roguishly handsome in a way that felt somehow safe. He was sweet. Not the performative sweetness of guys like Steve, but a raw, honest kindness that didn't expect anything in return. And when he’d tentatively asked her on a date a week later, stuttering over the words, she hadn't even hesitated. And the rest, as they say, was history.

The silence of the van felt electric with the memory of the night. A greasy pizza shared under the flickering fluorescent lights of a booth, and the feeling of his hand constantly finding hers. A movie complete with the warmth of each other pressed close after throwing up the bar between their seats. Eddie’s fingers tracing mindless patterns on her shoulder from where it sat.

"Earth to Henderson," Eddie said softly, snapping his fingers. "You’re doing that thing where you go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Want a map back to the present?"

"I'm here," she smiled, leaning across the center console. Then she reached out, her fingers disappearing into the wild, dark thicket of his hair. It was soft, despite the chaotic appearance, and smelled faintly of the rain that had started to mist outside. She found a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck and began to gently work it through with her thumb. Eddie let out a low, contented hum that vibrated through the small space, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he caught himself. "Careful there, Princess," he rasped, though he didn't pull away. "You really shouldn't go poking around in that rat’s nest. You might lose a finger. Or find a guitar pick I lost in '84."

She scoffed, tugging playfully on a frizzy curl. "It wouldn't be a rat's nest if you actually brushed it once in a while. Or used conditioner. I’ve seen your shower, Eddie. One bar of soap for everything? It’s a miracle you have hair at all."

"Brushing? Proper maintenance?" He gave her a look of mock horror. "That wouldn't be very rock and roll of me, would it? The aesthetic requires a certain level of... let's call it unrefined grit. Besides, I’m just glad your mom isn't one of those pearl clutching parents who thinks long hair is a sign of moral decay. I half-expected her to demand I put a pair of scissors to it before I was allowed to take you out."

"She likes you," she reminded him, finally smoothing out the knot and running her fingers down the length of his hair until she found his upper back. "She thinks you’re charming. Probably because you pull that 'polite young man' act out of your pocket whenever she’s around."

"It’s not an act. Well entirely," he insisted, though his grin suggested otherwise. He shifted, his leather jacket creaking as he turned more fully toward her in the cramped space. His expression grew a bit more focused, his dark eyes searching her own."So," he began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial rasp. He leaned back against the driver’s side door, watching her intently. "Since the Henderson matriarch is away and the curfew is... shall we say, more of a suggestion tonight... How do you want the rest of this evening to go? I am at your service, oh captain, my captain." He turned back to the road, his voice dropping into a lower, more deliberate register. "We could go back to the trailer, and just put on a record or I could just sit here and let you keep de-tangling me until I fall asleep behind the wheel."

She felt a surge of boldness, fueled by the lingering adrenaline of the date and the way his leather jacket smelled like cheap cologne. She leaned in further, her lips hovering just inches from his jawline, voice dropping into a low, deliberate purr. "I don't know, Eddie. It’s a nice night. Maybe we could drive back out toward the woods? I hear Skull Rock is particularly... scenic this time of night."

Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Scenic? Princess, it’s pitch black. You can’t see the rock, let alone the view. The only reason anyone goes out there at this hour is to make out in the back of a car or–" He stopped mid-sentence. The gears shifted visibly behind his eyes, his mouth falling open slightly as the implication finally landed. He looked at her, his usual bravado momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of uncertainty.

"Wait," he stammered, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Are you... are you saying what I think you’re saying? Because, look, I’ve done that... once. And it wasn't exactly a cinematic masterpiece if you catch my drift." He looked at her with an earnestness that made her heart ache. "I just... I didn't think you’d be ready for that yet. I didn't want to be the guy who pushed."

She reached out, cupping his face and forcing him to look her in the eye, silencing his spiraling thoughts as he pulled to a crawl outside her house, "Eddie," she said, voice firm and warm. "I want to. I trust you."

Eddie didn’t move immediately. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow rhythm that betrayed the nerves beneath his cool exterior. He looked like he wanted to say something profound, something poetic and Tolkien-esque, but instead, he just let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Okay," he whispered, the word more of a promise than an acknowledgement. "Okay, Henderson."

He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. His hands, usually so steady when shredding a guitar solo, had a slight, endearing tremor as he flicked his lighter. The flame cast a sharp, amber glow across his features. Th high cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the way his lips pulled back as he took a deep drag. He held the smoke for a second, then exhaled it in a long, slow plume that joined the mist curling against the windshield.

He leaned over the center console, his body casting a shadow over hers. He pressed his lips to hers, tasting of tobacco and the cherry Icee they’d shared earlier. It wasn't the chaste, sweet kiss of their earlier dates; it was hungry, desperate, and laden with the "three weeks of holding back" that was finally snapping.

As he pulled away, he pressed the cigarette to her lips, letting her take a drag while his other hand found the ignition. The van roared to life with a violent bang, vibrating with a raw energy that seemed to mirror the heat in the cabin. Eddie threw the GMC into gear and floored it, the tires chirping against the asphalt as he tore away from the curb. The suburban houses became blurred streaks of grey and white through the thickening fog. Inside, the atmosphere was thick and heady. Eddie reached over, taking the cigarette back from her, his fingers lingering against her chin.

"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made her toes curl. He glanced at her, eyes dark and predatory, before snapping them back to the mist-shrouded road. "How many times I’ve sat in this van after dropping you off, just... staring at your front door like a total loser, wondering if you were gonna stop being so polite and start being this dangerous."

"Dangerous?" she echoed, a small, daring smile playing on her lips.

"Fucking lethal," he corrected. He passed the cigarette back, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "You’re sitting there looking all soft and quiet, and then you say something like that? Makes me want to do such horrible things to you Henderson."

He shifted gears, his movements fluid and aggressive. The engine groaned as they hit the incline leading toward the outskirts of town. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires and the crackle of the radio playing a, distorted hair-metal ballad.

"You know what I’m gonna do when we get there?" Eddie asked. He didn't wait for an answer. One hand stayed on the wheel, while the other moved to her thigh, his fingers digging into the denim of her jeans. "I’m gonna find out if you taste as good as you smell. Because right now, Henderson, you smell like vanilla and trouble, and it’s driving me absolutely insane."

He squeezed her leg, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric, and for a second, the only sound was the rumble of the GMC. The fog was a wall now, turning the world into a claustrophobic, private chamber.

"Tell me something," he said, his tone shifting. It was still low, still heavy, but a flicker of that gentle, inquisitive Eddie who sat with her at Skull Rock rept back in. He glanced at her, his eyes searching hers with a soft intensity. "What’s the tally, Princess? And don't give me the polite version. I mean... what have you actually done? How far have the boys of Hawkins gotten before they hit the 'no entry' sign?"

She bit her lip, the ghost of the cigarette smoke still on her tongue. "Not... far. Nowhere, really. Just some fumbling at a party once that I ended before it even started."

Eddie let out a breathy, knowing laugh, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her knee. "Yeah. I figured. I’d bet my last guitar string that you’re a virgin." He didn't say it like a judgment. "But," he added, his voice dropping into a playful, seductive rasp, "I also bet you’ve got the most active imagination in this entire zip code. All that reading, all those hours tucked away in the library... you’re not just reading about hobbits and dragons, are you?"

He leaned a little closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling her lungs. "Come on. Tell me. What does that brilliant, beautiful brain of yours do when the lights are out and you’re all alone? I want to know the things you think about. The things you’re too shy to even whisper to your pillow."

He looked at her with such genuine, wholesome wonder, like she was a mystery he was honored to solve. "I bet you read it, don't you? The smut. The stuff the librarians keep behind the counter. The paperbacks with the embossed gold letters and the shirtless guys on the cover. I bet you’re too scared to actually watch it but you read it."

She felt the heat flare in her neck, a deep, tell-tale crimson. She gave a small, jerky nod, suddenly finding the dashboard very interesting. Eddie’s grin softened into something incredibly sweet, his fingers moving up an inch, his touch reassuring and light. "Hey, look at me. It’s okay. It’s actually... it’s hot, Henderson. It’s really hot that you have this whole secret world inside your head." He tilted his head, his dark curls spilling over his brow. "So, be brave for me. Tell me one thing you read. Something that made your heart race. Something you’ve read on a page and thought, 'I wonder if that feels as good as it looks.' What’s something you’ve always wanted to try out?"

He waited, his expression a perfect, dizzying blur of a boy who wanted to take care of her and a man who wanted to ruin her, his hand staying perfectly still on her thigh to let her know the choice was entirely hers. She took a shaky breath, her gaze flickering from the fog-slicked windshield to the rings on his hand, still resting heavy and warm against her thigh. The vulnerability of the moment felt sharper than any physical threat she’d faced that summer.

"I remember reading about a guy," she started, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the van's loose muffler. "He didn't just... it wasn't just about him. He went down on her. And the way the author wrote it, it wasn't like a chore. It was described like he really got off on doing it. Like her pleasure was the thing that made him lose his mind."

Eddie’s hand jerked slightly, a silent, physical reaction to her words. He let out a low, whistling breath, his eyes darkening as he processed the image. "Why that, Henderson?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a thick, velvet sandpaper. "Of all the things in those dusty books, why does that one stick in your brain?"

"Because," she whispered, finally finding the courage to look at him. "Everything in this town feels so one-sided. Guys want to score, so they can brag. But in that story, it was like he was worshipping her. It felt... deliberate. And intense."

Eddie’s lopsided grin returned, but it was softer now, devoid of its usual mockery. He looked at her with a quiet awe. "Deliberate. I like that word," he murmured. He shifted the van into fourth gear as the road began to wind upward, the trees closing in like a canopy. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. What else? Don't stop now, Princess. You’re on a roll."

She twisted a loose thread on her blouse, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I like the dialogue," she admitted, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength. "I like when they talk. Not just moaning. I like how it is when the guy guides the girl. Especially if she hasn't, you know, done it before. I like when he’s caring, but he’s still in charge. Like he’s teaching her a language only the two of them speak."

Eddie pulled the van toward the shoulder of the road for a brief second, his eyes never leaving hers even as he steered with practiced ease. He reached out, his thumb catching her chin and tilting her head up. "You like a guide, huh?" he asked, his voice a soothing, seductive hum. "Someone to show you the map so you don't get lost in the dark?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting, tender second. "I can do caring, Henderson. I can be the sweetest guy you’ve ever met. But you have to know, if I’m the one guiding you, I’m not gonna stop until you’re shaking. I’m gonna talk to you the whole time. I’m gonna tell you exactly how beautiful you look when you’re coming apart, and I’m gonna make sure you know that every sound you make is better than any song I’ve ever heard."

He pulled back just enough to see her pupils blown wide, mirroring the darkness of the woods outside. "Is that what you want? You want me to talk you through it? To tell you where to put your hands and how to breathe while I’m taking my time with you?"

His hand slid a little higher on her thigh, the heat of his palm a searing brand. "Because I’ve been thinking about this since the day at Skull Rock. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to be the first one to see you like that. To be the one who gets to be careful with you, but also the one who gets to... well, let's just say I’m not just interested in the 'worship' part, though there’s gonna be plenty of that." He shifted back into gear, the van lurching forward as they neared the turn-off for the lookout. "I’m gonna guide you, Princess. Every step of the way. And I promise you, by the time we’re done, you’re not gonna need those books anymore."

The mist swallowed the GMC as they turned onto the gravel path, the crunch of the stones beneath the tires sounding like a countdown. "Tell me one more thing," he said, his voice a low, commanding purr as the van slowed. "When you read those stories... do you imagine the guy looks like me?”

She didn't hesitate this time. The bashfulness was still there, a soft glow beneath her skin, but it was being overtaken by a raw, quiet honesty. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand where it gripped the gear shift, tracing the prominent veins and the silver rings that felt like ice against her feverish skin.

"It’s always been you. Since that day at the rock, Eddie," she whispered, her voice steadying as she found the words. Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles straining, but he stayed silent, hanging on her every word.

"I think about your hands," she admitted, her touch traveling up to his wrist, feeling the frantic skip of his pulse. "I think about how they look when you’re playing guitar. How fast they move, how strong they are. I’ve spent so many nights wondering how they’d feel if they weren't on a guitar, but on me instead. If you’d be just as… precise."

Eddie let out a jagged, shaky breath, his chest heaving under the layers of denim and leather. "Precise," he choked out, the word sounding like a prayer. "Jesus, Henderson."

"And your hair," she continued, her voice growing more rhythmic, almost hypnotic as the van slowed to a crawl at the edge of the clearing. "I think about losing my hands in it. I think about how it would feel falling over my face, or how I could pull on it to bring you closer when you're... doing those things I read about. I like that you’re messy. I like that you’re loud and that you don't fit into the boxes this town built for us. When I'm alone, I don't think about a hero in a book. I think about the way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in this entire world."

Eddie cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by the tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal and the heavy, synchronized breathing of two people who had run out of road. He turned toward her, unbuckling his seatbelt with a violent click. He didn't move to touch her yet; he just sat there, looking at her with an expression that was so painfully sweet it made her throat ache, yet so predatory it made her stomach flip.

"You have a very dangerous way with words, you know that?" he said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. He reached out, his hand finally leaving the wheel to cup the back of her neck, his thumb sliding behind her ear to tangle in her hair. "You like my hands? You like the way I look at you?"

He leaned in until their noses brushed, the heat radiating off him in waves.

"I’m gonna go slow, just like your books, and I’m gonna talk you through every single bit of what I’m doing to you. And if you want to pull my hair? You go right ahead."

He slid his hand from her neck down to the first button of her blouse, his rings clicking softly against the plastic. "But first," he rasped, his eyes locking onto hers with a burning, protective intensity, "I want you to tell me you’re sure. Because once I start, I’m not gonna want to stop until I’ve worshipped every part of you that you’ve been keeping hidden."

She didn't speak; she simply nodded, a sharp, decisive movement that broke the last of his restraint. Eddie’s hand slid from her button to her jaw, his thumb hooking under her chin to pull her into one last, kiss before he scrambled over the center console. She followed him, limbs tangling in the cramped space between the seats, the friction of denim on vinyl squeaking as they tumbled into the cavernous, darkened rear of the GMC.

The back of the van was a den of shadows, smelling of stale patchouli, motor oil, and the dampness of the fog clinging to the exterior metal. There was a mattress of sorts. A thin, lumpy thing covered in a heavy, scratchy wool blanket. The moment she settled against it, Eddie was over her, his weight a sudden, grounding reality that pinned her to the floorboards.

He didn't start with words. He started with the devastating, physical press of his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a soft landing. It was the collision of two people who had been vibrating at a high frequency for miles. His lips were chapped and hot, molding against hers with force. He tasted of the acrid tang of the Marlboro and the lingering, synthetic sugar of the cherry Icee, a combination that felt illicit and intoxicating. When he tilted his head, his teeth grazed her lower lip. A sharp, accidental spark of pain that immediately dissolved into a surge of heat.

Eddie groaned, a low, tectonic sound that she felt in her own chest as he pried her mouth open with his. His tongue was a restless, rhythmic intruder, slick and heavy as it swept past her teeth to claim hers. The kiss became a messy, uncoordinated battle of suction and friction. She could feel the damp slide of saliva coating her lips, the wetness blurring the line where his mouth ended and hers began. The air in the van grew stifling, humid with their shared breath. Every time he pulled back for a fraction of a second, a thin, glistening string of spit stretched between them before he crashed back down, more desperate than before. His hair was a wild, static-charged curtain falling around her face, the coarse strands tickling her cheeks and forehead, creating a private, lightless tent.

His hands were exactly as she had described: precise and unrelenting. One was buried deep in the hair at the base of her skull, his fingers knotting into the strands to hold her steady for the onslaught, while the other was splayed flat against the small of her back, pulling her hips upward to meet the hard, heavy line of his thighs.

The intensity escalated until the "sweetness" he had promised was buried under the raw mechanics of desire. There was the audible, wet slap of their mouths meeting, the occasional jarring clink of his rings against her teeth when he reached up to cup her face, and the rhythmic, frantic panting that filled the small space. He sucked at her tongue, pulling it into his mouth with a strength that made her head swim, his own tongue darting deep to explore the roof of her mouth with a feverish intensity. He broke the kiss for a second, his face hovering barely an inch from hers, both of them gasping for the oxygen that had been sucked out of the van. His lips were swollen, slick and shining in the dim light filtering through the foggy glass.

"God, Henderson," he rasped, the sound torn from the back of his throat. He didn't look sweet anymore; he looked wrecked, his dark eyes blown out until the irises were just thin rings of mahogany. He let his head drop into the crook of her neck, his hot breath blooming against her collarbone. "You move like that again, and I'm gonna forget all about being a gentleman. You're fucking ruining me."

Eddie didn’t give her time to catch her breath. He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels with a fluid grace that made the van’s suspension groan. "Come here, gorgeous," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that low, chest-vibrating register. He reached out, his large hands spanning the entire width of her waist, and hauled her forward until she was straddled across his lap.

The heat of his thighs through both their denim was a shock, but before she could process the friction, he was reaching for the hem of his black Megadeath shirt. In one jagged, impatient motion, he whipped the fabric over his head and tossed it into the front seat. The air hit his bare skin, and she froze, her breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. In the dim, milky light filtering through the fogged-up windows, Eddie’s torso looked like a map of another world. The ink was dark and aggressive against his pale skin. The swarm of bats trailing up his forearm, the demonic imagery, and the jagged lines of the spider. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of art and rebellion.

Eddie caught the look on her face and a low, melodic chuckle vibrated through his chest. He leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his elbows, the muscles in his stomach rippling with the movement. "Relax, Princess," he teased, his eyes dancing with a mix of pride and affection. "I promise they don’t bite. I don’t either, unless of course you ask me to."

Seeing her still rooted in place, he reached up and took her wrists. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the heavy-metal aesthetic of his skin. He guided her hands toward his chest, pressing her palms flat against the ink. "It’s okay," he murmured, his voice softening into something deeply endearing. "You can touch them. I’m not made of glass, Henderson. Go on, explore the gallery."

She let her fingers roam, her tips tracing the raised, slightly scarred texture of the black lines. She followed the curve of a bat’s wing, the dip of his collarbone, and the hard, flat planes of his pectorals. The skin was hot and she could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath her right palm. Eddie watched her with his head tilted back against the side of the van as he let her take him in.

"I’d really love to see you too," he whispered, the playfulness in his voice replaced by a thick, heavy sincerity. "If you'll let me." She nodded, a quick, nervous jerk of her chin. Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest, but when she looked into his eyes, she found nothing but a steady, grounding heat.

Eddie reached for the first button of her blouse. He didn't rush. He made a point of maintaining eye contact, his dark pupils blown wide, capturing the faint light.The first button slipped through the hole. He watched her reaction, his thumb grazing the hollow of her throat. The second gave way, revealing the pale curve where her neck met her shoulder. His movements were methodical, deliberate, turning the simple act of undressing into a ritual. When the last button was undone, he gripped the collar and slid the fabric down her arms, letting it pool on the wool blanket behind her. The cool air hit her skin, causing a shiver to race down her spine, but Eddie was already there to warm her.

He didn't grab. Instead, he extended a single finger, and began to trace a slow, agonizingly light line from her collarbone down toward the center of her chest. The physicality of it was electric. The scrape of his nail against her soft skin creating a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "You're so beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through gravel. His gaze dropped to the lace of her bra, his breath hitching. He leaned in, his nose brushing against the swell of her breast, the scent of her skin making his head swim.

"Please," he whispered against her skin, the word a ragged plea. "Let me take this off too. I want to see all of you. I want to feel you against me, no barriers. Can I, Princess?"

His hand moved to the clasp at her back, his fingers fumbling slightly with the metal hooks. A humanizing, sweet break in his seductive armor as he waited for her silent permission to finally close the distance between them. She didn't speak, her voice lost to the thick, humid air of the van, but she arched her back slightly, a silent surrender that gave him the access he craved. Eddie didn't need another hint. With a deft, practiced flick of his fingers, the tension of the clasp gave way. The moment the barrier was gone, he didn't immediately move to touch her. He just looked, his chest heaving. Then, he leaned forward, closing the final inch of space.

The sensation of their bare chests meeting was a physical jolt. The contrast was staggering: his skin was hot, slightly damp, and textured with faint hair on his sternum; hers was smooth, cool from the night air, and soft as silk. As they pressed together, the friction of skin on skin created a static-like heat that seemed to radiate through her entire body. She could feel the hard, solid muscle of his pectorals crushing against the yielding softness of her breasts, their heartbeats slamming against one another in a frantic, syncopated rhythm.

Eddie let out a long, shuddering groan into the crook of her neck, his hands sliding down her back to grip her waist, pulling her even tighter into his lap. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing her in, before he pulled back, his dark eyes fixated on her chest. "I told you," he whispered, his voice a jagged ghost of a sound. "Fucking lethal."

He lowered his head, his dark curls spilling over her skin. He started with the lightest of touches, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe across the swell of her breast, the moisture cooling instantly in the drafty van. Then, he opened his mouth. His lips, hot and swollen from their kissing, encircling her nipple. The sensation was overwhelming. The wet, high-pressure heat of his mouth was a sharp contrast to the cool air. He didn't just bite or suck; he used his tongue with a deliberate movement. He swirled it around the sensitive peak, the texture of his tongue sending sharp, electric jolts straight to her core.

He began to suckle, pulling her deep into the heat of his mouth. She felt the distinct, pulsing suction as he used his lips to create a vacuum, his tongue flicking rapidly against the hardening tip. It was a heavy, concentrated sensation, the tugging causing a deep, low ache to bloom in her hips. Every time his teeth grazed her in just a hint of a sharp edge, she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, her nails scraping against the ink of the bats on his arms.

He was relentless, his breath hot and damp against her skin as he shifted his focus, his lips sliding over the sensitive underside before returning to the center. The sound of the wet, rhythmic noise of his mouth on her filled the quiet of the van. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes dark and glazed with a terrifying level of hunger, watching her face crumble as he continued to worship her exactly the way she had read about, but with a physical intensity no book could ever truly capture.

The friction of her shifting hips against the rough denim of his thighs sent a jolt of clarity through her that was almost as sharp as the pleasure he was grounding into her chest. As she moved, the slick, heavy heat between her legs made itself known, a dampness that had saturated the thin lace of her underwear. She let out a broken, jagged gasp, her back arching instinctively away from the sensation, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself. Eddie felt the hitch in her breath, the way her body suddenly stiffened and then melted in a different, more desperate direction. He pulled back, his lips wet and glistening, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he watched the realization dawn in her eyes. He didn't have to ask; the way she was trembling, the way she couldn't quite meet his gaze, told him everything.

"Henderson," he rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating purr that seemed to echo in the very floorboards of the van. "You're shaking. And I think I know why."

He reached down, his large, ringed hand sliding between their bodies, his palm flattening against the denim of her jeans right over the apex of her thighs. He didn't move it; he just let the heat of his hand sink in, feeling the unmistakable dampness that had already begun to seep through the heavy fabric. His eyes darkened, the mahogany turning to a scorched earth black.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. When she finally lifted her gaze, his expression was a dizzying mix of that "guide" authority and a raw, primal hunger. "Remember that story you told me? The one about the guy who really got off on doing it for her? The one who wanted to taste her more than he wanted to breathe?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers, his breath a hot, humid cloud. "Will you let me do that? Will you let me eat you out, Princess? I want to see if you taste as sweet as you smell."

She couldn't find her voice, so she simply nodded, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Eddie didn't waste a second. He shifted her weight, guiding her back onto the scratchy wool blanket while he moved to the foot of the mattress. He reached for the button of her jeans, his fingers surprisingly steady as he worked the metal through the hole. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the quiet of the foggy woods. He didn't just pull them off; he dragged them down slowly, his eyes never leaving the map of her legs as they were revealed. When he got to her underwear, his breath hitched. The lace was translucent with her own heat, a dark, damp patch marking the center.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, sliding them down her legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation. Once they were off, he didn't toss them aside. He held the small, damp scrap of fabric in his hands, his fingers tracing the lace. He brought it to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat.

"You mind if I keep these?" he asked, his voice a thready whisper. He looked up at her, his expression stripping away the bravado, leaving only a raw, honest want. "I’d love to revisit this later. When I’m stuck in that trailer alone, thinking about the way you looked right now..."

He folded the lace and tucked it into the pocket of his discarded vest, his eyes softening as she buried her face in her hands, a deep, flustered crimson staining her cheeks. "Hey," he murmured, crawling back up the mattress until he was hovering over her again, his bare chest a wall of heat. He gently pried her hands away from her face, his touch as light as a feather. "Don't hide. You're fucking precious, you know that? Every single part of you."

He kissed her forehead, a sweet, lingering gesture that felt like a promise, before his gaze drifted back down. His hands found her inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive, pale skin there, moving upward in slow, rhythmic circles. "Now," he whispered, his voice dropping back into that seductive, authoritative rasp. "Let's see if I can't make you forget how to speak entirely."

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He moved with a focused, hungry intent, sliding down the length of her body until he was kneeling between her spread knees. The cool air of the van rushed over her exposed skin for only a second before the heat of him replaced it. He draped her legs over his shoulders as he leaned in. When his mouth finally made contact, it was a revelation of pure, wet heat.

He started slow, the tip of his tongue tracing the very outer edges of her, testing the waters. He was incredibly thorough, his tongue flicking and swirling with a rhythmic pressure that mimicked the way he played his guitar: calculated, fast, and devastatingly accurate. The texture was a contrast of slickness: the soft, velvet glide of his tongue against the sensitive, swollen folds that were already weeping for him.

She let out a high, thin wail, her head tossing back against the lumpy mattress. As if on cue, the light mist outside finally broke, and a sudden, heavy downpour began to lash against the metal roof of the GMC. The sound was a frantic, metallic drumming, a chaotic percussion that seemed to sync up with the wet, rhythmic sounds Eddie was making between her thighs. He grew bolder, his mouth opening wider to draw her in. He used his lips to tug at her, his tongue working a frantic, fluttering pace against her clitoris. The physicality was all-consuming: the scrape of his stubble against the inside of her thighs, the hot, humid clouds of his breath hitting her skin, and the way his fingers dug into her hips to hold her still against the onslaught.

"Eddie," she choked out, her fingers tangling in the wild, damp mess of his hair, pulling him closer.

He didn't stop. If anything, the rain hammering on the roof seemed to drive him harder. He delved deeper, his tongue long and insistent, exploring every inch of her. She could feel the dampness of his own saliva mixing with hers, a slick, hot slurry that coated everything. The pressure was constant, a building tension that felt like a wire being pulled taut.

Every time she thought she couldn't take any more, he would shift his angle, his tongue flat and heavy one moment, then sharp and precise the next. He was drinking her in, his throat working as he swallowed, making good on his promise to worship her. The van rocked slightly with his movements, the sound of the storm outside muffling her cries as he drove her toward a ledge she had only ever read about in the quiet of the library, now made terrifyingly, beautifully real by the man who refused to let her go.

The tension inside her was a bowstring pulled to the snapping point, her heels digging into his shoulders as her hips began to stutter in a frantic, involuntary rhythm. The hammering of the rain on the van’s roof reached a deafening crescendo, a wall of white noise that made the space feel like a tiny, vibrating island in the middle of a storm. Just as she reached the precipice, her breath catching in a jagged, suspended sob, Eddie suddenly pulled back just an inch. The loss of that direct, searing contact made her whimper, her hands clutching at his hair to pull him back down.

"No, no," he rasped, his voice a thick, dark command that cut through the sound of the rain. He looked up at her, his face a mess of slick moisture and blown-out pupils, his jaw set with a hard, focused intensity. "Look at me. Don't fight it, Henderson. Don't you dare hold back."

He slid his hands under her, lifting her hips higher, his thumbs pinning her open as he leaned back in. He didn't go back to the slow swirls; he used his tongue in a flat, heavy, relentless stroking motion, firm and rhythmic. "Let go," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice buzzing through her. "Right now. I've got you."

The command was the final push. The wire snapped. Her entire body convulsed, a violent, beautiful shiver that started in her toes and crashed through her spine. Her vision whited out, the sound of the rain turning into a dull roar in her ears. She felt the heavy, wet heat of his mouth stay pinned to her through every internal pulse, catching every drop, refusing to let the sensation fade until she was completely spent. Her muscles turned to water, her legs sliding off his shoulders to thud limply against the mattress.

The silence that followed, save for the rhythmic drumming of the storm, was heavy and thick. Eddie didn't move for a long minute. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the inside of her thigh, his breathing coming in ragged, labored hitches. Finally, he crawled back up the length of her body, the movement slow and deliberate. He looked wrecked, his hair a tangled curtain around his face, but as he settled beside her, the predatory edge had vanished, replaced by a soft, glowing warmth.

He pulled the scratchy wool blanket over both of them, shielding them from the drafty air of the van, and hauled her into his side. Her head landed on the hard, tattooed plane of his chest, her ear pressed right over his heart, which was still hammering like a trapped bird. "Jesus," he whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he smoothed her hair back from her sweaty forehead. He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there. "You taste so good, Princess. You hear me? So fucking good."

His voice was a low, soothing hum, a complete departure from the gravelly seduction of minutes before. He reached down, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers, his rings cold but his palm searing.

The wool blanket was a rough, warm cocoon against the cool air of the van, but beneath it, the air was still charged with a residual, static electricity. She shifted against his side, her movements slow and languid, like someone waking from a heavy dream. While her ear tracked the thudding rhythm of his heart, her free hand began to wander. She let her fingertips graze the line of his stomach, feeling the way his abdominal muscles instinctively rippled and tightened at her touch. Slowly, almost tentatively, she reached lower. Her fingers found the heavy brass buckle of his belt, the metal cold against her knuckles.

Eddie’s breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that hitched in his throat. He didn't pull away, but he did go still, his hand pausing its gentle stroking of her hair. "Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly register that was more protective than provocative. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching her face in the gloom. "Henderson... look at me. You don't have to do that. Tonight isn't about some fair-trade agreement, okay? I’m perfectly happy just holding you until the sun comes up."

The rain outside seemed to underscore his sincerity, a steady, rhythmic wash against the GMC’s metal skin. She looked up at him, her eyes clear despite the flush still lingering on her cheeks. "I know," she whispered, her fingers curling more firmly around the leather of the belt. "But I want to, Eddie."

Eddie stared at her for a long beat, his expression a complex map of uncertainty, heat, and a profound sort of gratitude. He wanted to make sure she wasn't acting out of a sense of obligation. He searched for any flicker of hesitation, any shadow of doubt, but found only the same quiet resolve that had carried her through the summer’s horrors. "You're sure?" he pressed, his voice barely a breath. "We can stop right here. We can just listen to the rain. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sure," she said, her voice small but unwavering.

A slow, breathless smile broke across his face. The kind of lopsided, genuine grin that made him look like the boy she’d first met at Skull Rock. "Okay," he breathed. He sat up slightly, the movement causing the van to rock on its old springs. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unbuckled the belt and began to shimmy out of his heavy denim jeans. The friction of the fabric against the mattress made a dry, rasping sound that filled the small space. He kicked them off his ankles, leaving him in nothing but his plaid boxers.

He paused then, his knees framing her hips as he hovered over her. He reached down, his hands trembling just a fraction as he gripped the waistband of the boxers. But instead of pulling them down, he stopped, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip. "Actually," he rasped, his voice thick. He took her hands and guided them to the elastic waistband, letting her fingers feel the fabric. "I want you to be the one to do it."

She didn't hesitate. With her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she hooked her fingers under the elastic of his plaid boxers and slowly slid them down the long, lean line of his legs. As the fabric fell away, the air in the van seemed to vanish. Eddie sat back on his heels, his hands braced behind him on the lumpy mattress, exposing himself to her with a raw, vulnerable honesty that felt louder than the rain. In the dim, shadowed light, his manhood was a stark, imposing reality. He seemed impressive even if she didn’t have anything to compare it to. A coarse, dark thicket of hair grew at the base, curling upward toward his navel in a thin, enticing line.

Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingertips grazed the very tip of him before sliding down the smooth, velvet length. Eddie let out a sharp, jagged gasp that was almost a cry. His head snapped back, his throat working as he swallowed hard, and the muscles in his arms corded with the effort of staying still. "Jesus, Henderson," he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. "Your hands... you have no idea what that feels like."

She grew bolder, her palm cupping the weight of him, feeling the way he pulsed and jumped against her touch. He was searingly hot, the blood thrumming through him with a life of its own. Every time her thumb swiped over the sensitive tip, a low, guttural vibration started in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction.

He watched her for a moment, his eyes glazed and dark, watching her small hand against his skin. The physicality of watching her stroke him seemed to be the thing that finally pushed him over the edge of his restraint. "Wait," he rasped, gently catching her wrist to stop the movement. He leaned forward, his forehead briefly dropping to her shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. "I want you. God, I want you so bad. But I need to be a responsible 'guide' for a second." He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, his rings clicking as he ran a hand through his hair. "Don't go anywhere. I’ve got a stash in the glovebox."

He scrambled over the center console, his bare back rippling in the shadows. The van rocked as he leaned far forward, the glovebox clicking open with a plastic snap. There was the frantic sound of him rummaging through cassette tapes and loose change before he let out a triumphant "Aha!"

Eddie scrambled back into the dark cavern of the van, the small foil packet clutched in his hand like a prized treasure. But as he knelt before her, the cool, collected "Dungeon Master" persona was fraying at the edges. His fingers, usually so nimble when dancing across the fretboard of his guitar, were visibly trembling. The foil crinkled and slipped in his grip as he fumbled to tear the notched edge, his breath coming in short, erratic hitches that betrayed just how much the sight of her had unmoored him. He let out a frustrated, self-deprecating huff, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "Okay, so maybe the 'cool and collected' act is a bit of a stretch right now," he muttered, his rings clinking as his hands shook.

She reached out, her fingers steady as she gently pried the packet from his grasp. "Give it here, Munson," she whispered.

Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale, sinking back onto his heels and watching her with wide, reverent eyes. A flicker of his usual mischief returned, though it was softened by the vulnerability of the moment. "Oh? Does the Princess know her way around a prophylactic?" he joked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Or are we just winging it like a first-level rogue?"

She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the careful task at hand. "You aren’t the only one who had to sit through Coach Higgins’ health class, Eddie. I remember the banana demonstration perfectly well. Though, for the record, this is a significant upgrade from a piece of fruit."

Eddie let out a jagged, genuine laugh that vibrated through the floorboards. "You flatter me fair maiden," Once the barrier was in place, Eddie didn't rush. He moved forward, his bare, tattooed chest a wall of heat as he guided her back onto the scratchy wool blanket. He hovered over her, his arms braced on either side of her head, his dark hair falling like a curtain to seal the world away. The rain outside was relentless now, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming against the metal roof that felt like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice dropping into that seductive, authoritative register. "I want you to listen to me. Close your eyes for a second."

When she complied, the world narrowed down to the tactile and the auditory.

"Focus on the details, Princess," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Listen to the rain. Hear how it hits the roof? It’s loud, and it’s messy, and it’s exactly like us right now. Feel the weight of me. Feel how my skin is sticking to yours because of the heat in here. Smell the old upholstery and the smoke. Feel how hard I am? This is all for you." He shifted, his lower body pressing against hers, the physical reality of him finally closing the distance. He moved with an agonizingly slow deliberation, his hands sliding down to lace through hers, pinning her palms against the mattress.

"I’m gonna go slow," he promised. "I’m gonna guide you through every second of it. You just keep listening to the rain and feeling the way I move. If it's too much, you tell me. If it's not enough, you pull on my hair. You’re the boss tonight, Henderson."

He nudged her knees further apart with his own, his eyes locked onto hers with a burning, protective intensity as he prepared to finally bridge the gap, the sound of the storm outside providing the only soundtrack to the moment they had both been waiting for.

"Eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel from his throat directly into her bones. The first contact was a shocking contrast of textures: the latex barrier, the slickness of her own readiness, and the heavy, blunt pressure of him finally finding his mark.

As he began to slide in, the world narrowed to a singular, piercing point of physical awareness. It was a slow, stretching invasion. The feeling of being filled, inch by painstaking inch. She felt the internal friction of him, the way her muscles tensed and then yielded to the sheer, solid bulk of him. A sharp, gasping sound escaped her, her head falling back as her fingers dug into the wool blanket, the fibers coarse and scratchy beneath her nails.

"Deep breaths," Eddie urged, his own voice sounding wrecked. He caught her mouth in a wide, open kiss, his tongue sweeping deep to catch her moan. He tasted like the dying embers of a cigarette and the iron-sweet tang of desire. The sound of their mouths was muffled by the violent rat-tat-tatof the rain hammering the metal roof just inches above them. The air in the van was thick with the scent of rain-damp leather, the metallic tang of the old GMC, and the musky, salt-sweet aroma of their joined bodies. Eddie’s hair fell forward, a wild, dark thicket, brushing against her cheeks and neck.

He paused when he was halfway, his body trembling with the Herculean effort of restraint. His forehead pressed against hers, and she could see the erratic pulse jumping in his neck, the way his jaw was locked tight. "You okay?" he rasped, the word barely a breath. "Talk to me, Princess. Tell me what you feel."

"Full," she managed to choke out, her voice a thready whisper. "I feel... everything."

"Good," he groaned. He began to move again, finishing the distance until they were flush, hip-to-hip, his pelvic bone a hard. The sensation of being completely occupied by him was overwhelming, a heavy, pulsing ache that felt like it was radiating through her entire nervous system. He stayed still for a moment, letting her body adjust to the new, staggering reality of him. Then, he began to pull back before sliding back in with a slow, rhythmic grind. The sound was unmistakable: the wet, sliding friction of skin on skin, the creak of the van’s old springs, and the heavy, synchronized panting of their breathing.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he picked up the pace, his voice a dark, encouraging hum. "That's it. Focus on the rain, Henderson. Focus on how I feel inside you. Just you and me in a tin box in the woods. Nobody else exists."

Every thrust was a deliberate lesson in physicality. She could feel the way his thighs bracketed hers; the way his rings felt cold against her shoulders when he reached up to brace himself; the way the humid air seemed to vibrate with every sound they made. He was a force of nature, guiding her through the dark with a steady, unyielding hand.

The rhythm of the rain on the roof intensified, shifting from a rhythmic drumming to a chaotic, deafening roar that seemed to wall them off from the rest of Hawkins. Inside, the air was a thick, sweltering soup of oxygen and salt. Eddie increased the pace, his movements losing their initial hesitance and gaining a raw, driving power. Each thrust was a heavy, sliding thud of contact, the sound of their bodies meeting becoming the only thing she could hear over the storm.

"Look at me, Henderson," he gasped, his voice straining under the weight of his own pleasure. He braced his weight on his forearms, muscles quivering with the effort of maintaining his rhythm while hovering over her. "Tell me you can feel that. Tell me exactly how I’m stretching you out right now."

He didn't wait for her to answer, his hips rolling into hers with a slow, agonizing grind that made her toes curl into the scratchy wool. "You’re so tight," he groaned, the words vibrating against her lips as he leaned down to capture them in another messy, saliva-slicked kiss. "Like you were made just to hold me like this. You hear that sound? That’s you, Princess. That’s what you do to me."

The physicality was staggering. She could feel the hard, corded ridges of his abs pressing against her stomach with every downward stroke. The sensations of him were everywhere. An intoxicating mix of his cheap cologne, the metallic scent of his rings, and the primal, musky heat of their shared exertion. When he moved, she could feel the slide of his sweat-slicked skin against her own, a frictionless glide that made the friction inside her feel all the more intense. "Focus," he whispered, his voice a dark, encouraging rasp in her ear. "Right here. Just the rain and the way I’m taking you. I want you to remember the weight of me. I want you to remember the way my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest because of you."

He began to drive harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and more urgent. The van rocked violently on its tired suspension, the old metal groaning in protest, but Eddie was oblivious to anything but the woman beneath him. He reached down, his fingers lacing through hers and pinning her hands back against the mattress again, his rings biting slightly into her skin. "You're doing so good," he panted, his eyes blown wide, watching the way her face fractured with every hit. "Talk to me. Make some noise for me, Henderson. Let the whole woods know you’re mine tonight. Tell me you want more."

"I want more," she finally broke, the words torn from her throat in a jagged, breathless sob that was instantly swallowed by a particularly violent roll of thunder. "Eddie, please, more."

The request was the final match in the powder keg. Eddie’s eyes went feral, a low, guttural growl vibrating deep in his chest as he shifted his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips to anchor her for the final, desperate sprint. The pace turned frantic, a blurring sequence of heavy, sliding friction and blunt impact that made the van’s frame shudder. "That's it," he choked out, his voice a broken, rhythmic chant against her neck. "Take it. Take all of it, Henderson."

She could feel the exact moment the tide turned. Her internal muscles began to pulse in involuntary, frantic waves, clamping down on him with a fierce, rhythmic suction that sent Eddie’s head snapping back. His movements became staccato, his breath hitching into short, sharp gasps as the friction inside her became a searing, white-hot localized sun.

Then, the world simply ceased to exist.

She felt the first wave of her climax crash over her. A physical, tensing jolt that started in her core and radiated outward until her fingers were clawing blindly at the skin of his back. She screamed into the humid air, the sound raw and unpolished, her back arching so sharply that only her heels and shoulders touched the blanket.

Seeing her break was the final trigger for Eddie. His body went rigid, his muscles locking into hard, straining cords under his ink-stained skin. He delivered one last, deep, agonizingly slow thrust, bottoming out with a heavy thud of pelvic bone against pelvic bone. A loud, visceral groan was ripped from his lungs. He held himself there, pinned deep inside her, his entire frame vibrating with the force of his own internal earthquake.

The sensation was total sensory overload: the slick, hot dampness where their bodies were fused; the stinging scrape of his chest hair against her breasts; the taste of salt on her lips as she kissed the sweat from his shoulder. They stayed locked together as the pulses slowly ebbed, the silence of the van rushing back in to replace the noise, save for the frantic, wet sound of their struggling breath. Eddie finally collapsed forward, his strength spent, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He was a dead weight, heavy and hot, his sweat soaking into her skin as they both trembled in the aftershock. The rain continued its relentless assault on the roof, but inside, the air had gone still and heavy.

He didn't pull away. He stayed merged with her, his heart hammering a frantic, muffled code against her ribs, his breath hot and damp against her collarbone. Slowly, he reached up, his shaking hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together, pressing her palm into the scratchy wool. "Holy... shit," he whispered into her skin, the words vibrating through her entire body. He let out a wet, breathless laugh.

The violent intensity of the last few minutes ebbed away, leaving behind a heavy, syrupy bliss that felt like being submerged in warm honey. The van grew quiet, the frantic drumming of the rain softening into a steady, rhythmic patter that hummed against the metal shell. Eddie shifted, his movements slow and ginger, as if he were afraid he might break the spell if he moved too fast. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and rolled onto his side, reaching for the discarded denim vest crumpled near the mattress. With a slight tremble still lingering in his fingers, he fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros and a lighter.

As he sat up, the cool air hit his sweat-slicked back, causing the dark ink of the wyvern on his arm to ripple. He flicked the lighter, the small flame casting a sharp, amber glow across his sharp features and the messy, wild halo of his hair. He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a lonely star in the dark, and exhaled a plume of smoke that swirled into the misted interior.

While he sat there, grounded and quiet, she shifted on the wool blanket. The back window of the van was completely opaque, a thick wall of white steam from their shared heat. Reaching out a hand, she pressed her fingertip to the glass. The condensation gave way easily, leaving a clear, dark streak. With slow, deliberate movements, she traced the curve of a heart into the steam, the moisture beading and rolling down the pane like a silver tear. Eddie turned his head, catching the movement. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his mouth. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. He just reached back with his free hand, squeezing her knee in a silent, affectionate pulse.

She sat up behind him and moved closer until her chest was pressed against his warm back. She began to reach into the tangled mess of his hair. It was a disaster. Matted from the humidity and the way he’d been throwing his head back, full of knots and static. She began to work through the tangles with her fingers. Eddie’s head tilted back instinctively, a low, contented hum vibrating through his shoulder blades and into her. He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes fluttering shut as she gently unpicked a stubborn knot near the nape of his neck.

"You're a mess, Munson," she whispered, her voice a soft, raspy thread in the dark.

"Yeah," he murmured, the smoke curling around his head as he leaned back into her touch, his voice thick with a drowsy, post-climax warmth. "But I'm your mess tonight, Henderson. Don't go fixing me too much."

She smiled against his skin, her fingers continuing their rhythmic, soothing work, finding peace in the quiet aftermath of the storm. ๋࣭ ⭑🎸⊹ ࣪ ˖

The drive back through the winding veins of Hawkins was a blur of silver and grey. The GMC rattled along the lightless roads, its headlights cutting weak, yellow tunnels through a fog so thick it felt like the world had been erased, leaving only the two of them in their metal sanctuary. The rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic drizzle that hissed against the asphalt. Eddie drove with one hand draped over the wheel and the other locked firmly with hers on the center console, his thumb tracing mindless, possessive circles over her knuckles. He looked different in the dashboard’s faint green glow. Softer with the sharp edges of his theatricality worn down by the weight of the night.

When the van finally groaned to a halt in front of the Henderson house, the silence of the suburban street felt heavy and expectant. The house was still dark, a silent witness to their return. Eddie killed the engine, and the sudden absence of the muffler’s roar made the sound of the rain against the roof seem deafening. "Back to reality," Eddie murmured, though he didn't let go of her hand. He turned to her, his eyes dark and searching. "You still with me, Henderson?"

"I'm here," she whispered, though her body felt heavy, her limbs humming with a dull, pleasant ache that made the prospect of moving feel like a monumental task.

Eddie reached into the back, grabbing his oversized leather jacket. It was heavy, smelling of the night and the unmistakable musk of him. "Come here," he said, and as she leaned over, he draped the jacket over her shoulders. It was far too big, the sleeves hanging limp, but the warmth of his body heat still trapped in the lining felt like a second skin. He hopped out first, the cool, damp air rushing into the van, and rounded the front to open her door. When she stepped out, her knees buckled. A sudden reminder of the intensity of the hours prior. Her legs felt like jelly, the muscles uncooperative and weak.

Eddie caught her instantly, his hands firm on her waist, pulling her flush against his side to steady her. He let out a low, playful chuckle, his breath ghosting against her temple. "Whoa there, easy. Legs a little shaky, Princess?" He looked down at her, his grin lopsided and brimming with a mix of pride and genuine concern. "What’s the matter? Do I gotta carry you the rest of the way, or can you manage the twenty feet to the porch?"

"I can walk, Eddie," she huffed, though she leaned into him heavily, letting him take most of her weight as they navigated the slick grass.

"I don't know," he teased, his arm tightening around her shoulders, pulling the leather jacket closer around her. "I think I might’ve broken you just a little bit. I should probably just sling you over my shoulder to be safe. Very 'caveman' of me, I know, but it gets the job done."

They reached the shelter of the porch, the overhang providing a brief respite from the drizzle. He turned her to face him, his back to the street, shielding her from the misty wind. He reached up, his rings cold against her cheeks as he cupped her face. The sweet Eddie was back, the one who looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a chaotic universe. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a long, quiet beat.

"Tonight was..." He paused, struggling for a word that wasn't too goofy for the moment. "It was everything, Henderson. I hope you know that."

He kissed her then. A slow, deep, and lingering goodbye that tasted of the rain and the remnants of the night. It wasn't the hungry, desperate clash of the van; it was tender, a promise of more to come, a seal on the secret they now shared. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, his thumb grazing her lower lip one last time.

"Get inside. Get warm," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I'll call you," Eddie promised, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the steady hiss of the rain. He stayed on the top step of the porch for a moment longer than necessary, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw as if he were trying to burn the image of her into his permanent memory. "First thing in the morning. Or, well, afternoon, since I’m probably going to sleep like the dead."

He took a slow step backward into the encroaching mist, the darkness of the yard beginning to swallow the lower half of his silhouette. She turned the key in the lock, the heavy click echoing in the quiet foyer, and pushed the door open. The warm, stagnant air of the house rushed out to meet her, smelling of floor wax and the mundane reality she had left behind hours ago. She paused in the threshold, one hand on the brass knob, and looked back. Eddie was standing at the edge of the porch’s yellow light, his damp hair clinging to his neck in dark, chaotic coils. He caught her eye and offered a sharp, theatrical two-finger salute before turning to disappear into the fog toward the idling van.

She eased the door shut, the latch catching with a finality that felt like the end of a long, feverish chapter. The house was silent, but her internal world was a riot of noise. Leaning her back against the wood, she let out a long, shaky exhale that puffed out in the cool hallway. It was only then, as the silence settled around her, that she realized the weight on her shoulders. She looked down and saw the cracked, heavy leather of his jacket still draped over her, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. She hadn't even thought to give it back, and he hadn't asked for it.

She pulled the lapels closer, burying her nose in the collar. The smell hit her. It was the pure, concentrated essence of the last few hours. It was the sharp tang of Marlboros, the musk of his skin, and the damp, earthy aroma of the rain-soaked woods. It was a sensory map of Eddie Munson, and it was wrapped entirely around her. She walked toward the stairs, her movements still heavy and uncoordinated. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else, a lingering, pleasant weakness that made her climb the steps with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Passing the hallway mirror, she caught a glimpse of a stranger: her hair was a wild, damp disaster, matted at the nape where his fingers had spent so much time, and her blouse was haphazardly buttoned, the fabric wrinkled and clinging to her skin.

She reached her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to turn on the light. The darkness was better; it allowed the memories to play back against her eyelids in vivid, high-definition flashes. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against her nipple, the slick, hot friction of him between her thighs, and the way the van had rocked in time with the storm.

She reached into the pocket of the leather jacket, her fingers brushing against a loose guitar pick and a crumpled receipt, before she simply curled up on top of her blankets, still wearing the jacket, still covered in him. Outside, the rain continued to weep against her window, but for the first time since the mall, the shadows in the corner of the room didn't feel like monsters. They felt like the dark, wild curls of a boy who had promised to call, and for the first time in her life, she didn't need a book to tell her how the story ended. She fell asleep with a lopsided smile, the taste of salt and smoke still lingering on her tongue.

Tag list? Just ask babes

(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)

“god, you’re brooding.”

steve’s voice cuts through the quiet of his room. you’re sprawled out on his bed, staring at the water stain on his ceiling that looks a little like a distorted bunny. you’d come over to vent after another spectacularly bad date, and he’d listened, nodding along with all the appropriate sympathetic expressions.

“i’m not brooding,” you mumble, not taking your eyes off the ceiling. “i’m… processing.”

“processing what, exactly? the fact that the guy from the record store thought ‘the beatles’ was spelled with an ‘e’?”

“he also tried to hold my hand and got my thumb,” you say, the memory still making you cringe. “it was just… the whole thing. it’s always the whole thing. it’s either too much tongue or no tongue at all. it’s like they skipped kissing day in middle school or something.”

he chuckles, a low, warm sound from his desk chair where he’s tossing a tennis ball against the wall. “you’ve just had a bad run. doesn’t mean you’re gonna die alone, you know.”

“it feels like it,” you whine, finally turning to look at him. he’s got his legs kicked out, wearing a faded band t-shirt and basketball shorts, looking completely at ease. it’s annoying. “it’s like i forgot how to do it. or maybe i never knew. maybe i’m just… objectively bad at it.”

he stops throwing the ball, catching it with a soft thud. he looks at you, really looks at you, and his expression shifts from amused to something more thoughtful. “you’re not bad at it.”

“you don’t know that. you haven’t kissed me.”

the words hang in the air between you, heavier than you intended. his eyes widen, just a fraction, before a slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. it’s the king steve smile, the one that says he’s about to win a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“okay,” he says, standing up. the bed dips as he sits on the edge, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “let’s test that theory.”

your heart does a stupid little flip. “what?”

“let’s kiss,” he says, like he’s suggesting you order a pizza. “right now. you and me. we’ll be the judge. a scientific experiment.”

you stare at him. this is a terrible idea. this is the kind of idea that gets your feelings hurt and complicates the best friendship you’ve ever had. but the thought of another date like tonight, another clumsy, unsatisfying kiss, makes you feel exhausted. and steve is… steve. he’s safe. he’s your best friend.

“okay,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your lips.

he leans in, and you instinctively close your eyes. his first touch is impossibly gentle, just the soft press of his lips against yours. it’s nice. it’s… fine. it’s not earth-shattering. he pulls back, and you open your eyes to see him looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“see?” he says, his voice a low murmur. “not bad. but that’s not what you’re looking for, is it?”

you shake your head, unable to speak.

“didn’t think so,” he says, and then he leans in again.

this time is different. his hand comes up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. he angles his head, deepening the kiss, and his lips part against yours. it’s a question, an invitation. you respond, your own lips parting, and his tongue slides against yours. it’s not forceful, not sloppy. it’s slow and deliberate, a slow, sweet exploration that makes your toes curl.

you’ve been kissed before, but never like this. never with this kind of focused intent. he’s not trying to get to the next base; he’s just… kissing you. he’s paying attention. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you a little closer, and you gasp into his mouth as his thumb traces circles on your hip bone.

he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that makes your head spin. it’s a slow, dirty slide that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in the warmth of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the low hum he makes in the back of his throat when you kiss him back with equal fervor.

your own hands, which have been limp at your sides, come up to rest on his chest. you can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, the firm muscle of his chest. his t-shirt is soft, worn thin from a hundred washes. you fist the fabric, holding on.

he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. you’re both breathing a little harder now.

“still think you’re bad at it?” he asks, his voice husky.

you can only shake your head, your brain feeling like it’s been scrambled.

“good,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you again. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s hungry, desperate. his hand slides from your waist to your back, pressing you against him. you can feel the hard line of his erection through his shorts, and the realization that you did this to him, that you’re the one making him hard, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing a hot, wet path down your jaw to your neck. he nips at the sensitive skin there, and you whimper, tilting your head to give him better access. he sucks a mark into your skin, a possessive bruise that you know you’ll have to hide tomorrow, but right now, you don’t care. all you care about is the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on you.

“steve,” you breathe, your voice shaky.

“yeah, honey?” he murmurs against your skin, the nickname sending a shiver down your spine.

“more.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and blown wide with lust. he searches your face, like he’s looking for any sign of doubt, but he won’t find any. you’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

“okay,” he says, his voice rough. “okay.”

his hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks at you one last time, a silent question. you nod, lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head. he tosses it aside, his eyes raking over your exposed skin. it’s not a leering look; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation.

“god, you’re beautiful,” he says, and it sounds so genuine, so sincere, that it makes your chest ache.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast. his hands are on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin just above your jeans. his mouth is a brand, a trail of fire that’s burning away every bad date, every clumsy kiss, every insecurity you’ve ever had.

he reaches back and unclasps your bra with an ease that should be illegal. he slides the straps down your arms, his eyes never leaving yours. he tosses it with your shirt, and then he’s just looking at you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.

“you’re so perfect,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

a sharp cry escapes your lips, your back arching off the bed. it’s a direct line of pleasure, white-hot and electric. he lavishes attention on you, switching to the other side, giving it the same treatment. his hands are roaming your body, exploring every curve and dip like he’s trying to memorize you.

you’re a mess of writhing limbs and desperate gasps. you can feel the slick heat pooling between your thighs, your panties already soaked. you need more. you need him.

“steve, please,” you beg, your hands tangling in his hair.

he pulls back, his lips swollen and red. “what do you need, honey? tell me.”

“you,” you gasp. “i need you.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice. he stands up, pulling his own shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his chest and stomach. you’ve seen him shirtless before, at the pool, at the lake, but this is different. this is for you.

he kneels on the bed, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. he unbuttons them slowly, his eyes locked on yours. he pulls them down, along with your panties, in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare to his gaze.

he spreads your legs with his hands, settling between them. he looks at you, at the most intimate part of you, with a hunger that makes your entire body flush. he leans down, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but he doesn’t.

he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher up. he’s teasing you, torturing you. you’re squirming, desperate for his touch where you need it most.

“steve,” you whimper. “please don’t tease.”

he looks up at you from between your legs, a wicked glint in his eyes. “who’s teasing?”

he grins against your skin, and the vibration of it makes you shudder. “patience, honey. s’not a race.”

but then he finally, finally gives you what you want. he flattens his tongue and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your entire body jolts. it’s not a tentative flick; it’s a confident, knowing swipe that has you seeing stars behind your closed eyes.

“oh, god,” you choke out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands.

he hums in response, the sound a low, pleased rumble against your most sensitive flesh. he does it again, slower this time, savoring you. his hands grip your thighs, holding you open for him, and you’re completely at his mercy. he explores you with his mouth, his tongue tracing every inch of you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you whine, what makes your hips buck up off the bed.

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, light, teasing touches that have you squirming, desperate for more pressure. “steve, please,” you beg, your voice barely a whisper. “please, i need—”

he cuts you off by sucking your clit into his mouth, a hard, perfect pressure that sends a bolt of pleasure so intense through you that you cry out. he doesn’t let up, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves. one of his hands lets go of your thigh, and you feel his fingers teasing your entrance, gathering your slickness.

“so fuckin’ wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by your flesh. “all this for me, honey?”

you can only whimper in response, your mind too foggy with pleasure to form words. he slowly pushes one finger inside you, and it’s a welcome, delicious stretch. he curls it just so, finding that spongy spot inside you that makes your toes curl. he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you, preparing you.

the dual stimulation of his mouth on your clit and his fingers inside you is overwhelming. it’s a slow, steady build, a coil of heat tightening in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. you can feel the pressure mounting, the pleasure cresting, and you know you’re close.

“steve, ‘m gonna—” you gasp, your hips grinding against his face.

he doesn’t stop. if anything, he goes faster, his tongue working your clit in frantic circles as his fingers pump into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. the coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. you cry out his name, your body shaking, your thighs clamping around his head as the pleasure washes over you in intense, pulsing waves.

he works you through it, his movements slowing as you come down from your high, his tongue lapping gently at your over-sensitive clit. you’re a boneless, panting mess by the time he’s done, your limbs feeling like jelly.

he presses a soft, final kiss to your clit before pulling away. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, proud look on his face. his lips are swollen, his chin glistening with your arousal.

“so,” he says, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “still think you’re bad at it?”

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. “shut up.”

he grins, crawling up your body to hover over you. he’s still wearing his shorts, and you can feel his hard, clothed erection pressing against your thigh. you want more. you need all of him.

he kisses you again, his hand tangling in your hair. you can feel his need, his desperation, in the way he kisses you. he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

“i don’t have a—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“i’m on the pill,” you say. “s’fine. just… please, steve.”

he nods, his jaw tight with restraint. he stands up, his movements a little clumsy as he shoves his shorts and boxers down. his cock springs free, hard and thick and leaking at the tip. your mouth goes dry. he’s bigger than you expected, and a fresh wave of arousal, sharp and potent, floods through you.

he settles back between your legs, his body covering yours. he’s warm and solid and real, his weight a comforting pressure. he lines himself up at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours.

“ready?” he asks, his voice rough.

you nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

he pushes into you slowly, inch by inch. it’s a slow, delicious burn, a stretch that’s almost too much but not quite. he fills you completely, and for a moment, you just lie there, adjusting to the feeling of him inside you. it’s overwhelming, the way he’s stretching you, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“fuck,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “you feel so good. so fuckin’ tight.”

“move,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “please, steve, move.”

he starts to move, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again. it’s slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that has you gasping. he’s hitting deep inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with every thrust. it’s not like the frantic, messy fumbling you’re used to. it’s deliberate, purposeful. he’s making love to you, and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.

the pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his low groans. his mouth finds yours again, a desperate, messy kiss that’s all teeth and tongue.

“you feel so good,” he pants against your mouth. “so perfect, takin’ me so well.”

his words send a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. you can feel another orgasm building, this one deeper, more intense than the last. the coil in your stomach is tightening again, and you’re right on the edge.

“i’m close,” you gasp. “steve, ‘m so close.”

“come for me, honey,” he growls, his hand snaking down between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. “wanna feel you come on my cock.”

that’s all it takes. his thumb on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you, his voice in your ear—it’s too much. the coil snaps, and you’re coming again, your body convulsing around him, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

he follows you over the edge a moment later, his thrusts becoming erratic as he buries himself deep inside you with a final, guttural groan. you can feel him pulse inside you, the warmth of his release filling you.

he collapses on top of you, his body a dead weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you’re both panting, slick with sweat, the room quiet except for the sound of your heartbeats gradually slowing down.

after a long moment, he rolls off of you, pulling you into his side. he tucks you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. you’re sticky and sweaty and thoroughly fucked, and you’ve never felt more content in your life.

you trace patterns on his chest, your mind racing. what happens now? do you go back to being just friends? is that even possible?

“so,” he says, his voice a sleepy murmur. “how was that for a trial run?”

you laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time. you tilt your head back to look at him, a small smile playing on your lips.

“i think,” you say, your voice soft. “i might need some more practice. lots more.”

Something about the way he explained his plan with the slinky at the radio station just did something for you. Him, in his cute little sweater that you bought him, being the smart man that he was…

And then him in his backwards baseball hat and his leather jacket. God, you wanted to fuck him right there before you went into the Upside Down for hopefully the last time. When you pulled him to the side and whispered that into his ear, he immediately went red and promised you that when the two of you made it out alive that he was going to give you just what you wanted.

Which is what led you to where you are now, your body running on pure adrenaline and tangled up together with Steve’s in his bed.

You were both stark naked after being freshly showered, his hair still damp as you ran your hands through it and tugged a little, making him moan against your lips.

You could feel his hard cock pressing into your thigh, rocking against your soft skin in a way that was driving you crazy.

“Steve,” you huff, pulling away from his kiss.

”What is it, baby?” He says, his eyes still closed as he places soft pecks from your lips to your neck.

“Need you,” you whine as he nips at your skin, making you squirm.

”Mmm, I need you, too,” he says, placing one last kiss against your neck before pushing himself off and leaning towards the edge of the bed. He reaches inside his bedside drawer and pulls out a foil, immediately making you frown.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks, looking at you with pinched brows.

“Nothing, it’s just…” You didn’t want to say it out loud. Chalk it up to being in a constant state of fight or flight over the last few days, combined with seeing him almost die in front of you, but you couldn’t help but want to be as close to Steve as possible.

You and Steve were very careful, always using protection and still pulling out most of the time. It was a mutual thing, wanting to be safe not to bring a kid into the world while Vecna was still around. There was a bit of an unspoken thing between you, where sometimes when he would dirty talk he’d say he wanted to fill you up, and you definitely didn’t protest, getting worked up at the thought of him pumping you full of his cum. But that’s where it ended, never going further than a fantasy between you.

But right now, you wanted nothing more than to feel everything he had to offer you.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he says, stroking your cheek gently with his big hand. But you shake your head, just offering him a small smile.

”It’s nothing. Just—“ you pull him closer and capture his lips with yours. “Just need you inside me, please.”

”Fuck, anything you want,” he sighs. He takes the foil wrapper and puts it between his teeth, tearing it open until the rubber pops out and tossing the wrapper to the side with a pizzaz that makes you laugh. He takes the condom and reaches between you, kissing you softly as he rolls the rubber on himself.

“You ready for me?” He asks, looking down at you with lust filled eyes. You nod eagerly, feeling your body heat up in anticipation. He runs his tip through your folds, making your breath hitch when he catches your entrance and starts pushing in. Your eyes screw shut while your mouth falls open at the feeling of Steve stretching you. He rocks his hips, working you open gently on his massive cock.

”Damn,” he hisses through his teeth as he bottoms out.

“So good, Steve,” you sigh, looking up at him through your lashes. “Robin was right, you know,” you say with a cheeky grin.

”Shut up,” he chuckles before pulling out and giving you a sharp thrust. It takes your breath away, eyes going wide at the feeling. A low moan escapes your lips as you feel yourself growing needier. You grind your hips against him, wordlessly begging him to move.

Taking the hint, Steve starts to pull out, maybe only half way before he’s thrusting inside you once again. He does it over and over, picking up his speed as you start making those noises he loves to hear. His head ducks down to kiss you again, sloppy and uncoordinated while all his brain power was focused on fucking you.

“Fuck, Steve,” you moan, your arms reaching your arms over his shoulders and gripping at his back with your nails.

“Ah, fuck yeah,” Steve gasps, his head snapping up as he feels you scratching up his back. You looked up at him with hearts in your eyes as he fucked you into the mattress, just taking everything about him in. His long lashes that framed his beautiful hazel eyes. His freckles and moles that decorated his skin. His thick, infamous hair that was pointing every which way right now with how he was moving over you.

Fuck, you were in love.

You grab Steve by the ribs, his movements stilling as he looks down at you confused. But that doesn’t last long, because you’re flipping him over until he’s on his back and you’re sitting in his lap. This new angle had him feeling impossibly deep inside of you, and as much as you wanted to just start riding him then and there, you had your mind set to finally feel him how you’ve been needing.

Steve watches you with wide eyes as you pull yourself off of him completely. His eyes flicker up to your face, then on your hand as you reach down and grab him at the base of his cock. You take the ring of the condom between your fingers and slowly start to lift, the rubber flipping inside out as you peeled it off of his cock.

”What are you—“

”I wanna feel you, Steve,” you say, the condom popping off his head and hanging limply in your grasp.

”S-shit,” he breathes as he watches you toss the condom to the side. But then you wrap your hand around him and his eyes are immediately back on you, watching as you stroke his now bare cock. You lean over him, letting a glob of spit fall from your lips until it lands on his head. You use your hand to spread it all over, his hand going to cover his eyes as he moaned out at the feeling. Then, you got up on your knees and repositioned yourself over him once more. His big tip pressed into your heat as you lowered yourself down on him, stopping just before pushing inside.

Steve sat up for this, resting on his elbows as he watched you with wide eyes slowly take him inside of you once again. “Oh my god,” he almost chokes, his head falling back as you took him deeper. He curses, taking a finger in his mouth to bite down on as you take him fully, the plush of your ass sitting against his hips.

“Shit, Steve,” you sigh, eyes closing as you take in the feeling of his cock inside you like this. It felt so real, all those bumps and veins that the condom smoothed out became more noticeable as they rubbed you from the inside.

After a moment of just letting you both soak in this new experience, you were ready to move again. You lean into him, pushing him back down onto the bed as you kiss him slow. It felt electric, like something forbidden was taking place between you.

His hands felt up your body before landing on your hips, where he used his grip to pull you forward into him, his cock sliding out of you slightly. Then, he pushed them down sharply, making you slam back onto him fully once more. You gasped, mouth falling open against his cheek at the sensation that rippled through your body. He did it again and again, moving you up and down on his cock how he liked it. You thought you were going to be in control for this, but clearly Steve had other plans.

”That feel good, baby?” He asks into your ear. You nod, and he gives you a toothy grin.

Steve shifts under you, pushing you over him so that you’re bracing against the headboard, your tits directly in his face. He lifts his hips and thrusts hard into you, jolting you forward. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he says under you, watching the way your tits bounce in his face.

You could barely react fast enough when Steve suddenly started drilling into you, making your whole body shake with how hard he was fucking you. His name started falling from your lips, your moans filling the entire room.

”Like when I fuck you like this, baby?” He asks, and you nod dumbly at him. “Wanted me to fuck you bare like this, fuck—“

“Yes, need you, need you!”

”God, you feel so good like this. Never gonna be able to fuck you with a condom ever again after this.”

That sounded perfectly fine to you right now. The thought of him fucking you raw and filling you up with his cum over and over went straight between your legs, making you clench around him.

”Shit, you like that, huh,” he says, his hand reaching between you to find your clit with his thumb.

“Steve!” You cry as the new sensation takes your breath away.

“That’s right, Steve is gonna take care of you. Take care of my girl.”

”All yours, Steve,” you moan. And you meant it. After everything you’d been through, you knew he was it for you, and you hoped he felt the same way.

“Oh, fuck, baby, I’m gonna need you to come for me, okay?” He says with a bit of panic in his voice.

”Almost there,” you tell him, feeling that coil in your stomach going taut.

”Wanna feel you cum on my cock,” he slurs, looking up at you. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes! Fuck!”

His words push you over the edge, a hot wave of pleasure washing over your body as you start to cum. Your body falls forward, arms wrapping around Steve’s neck as you ride out your orgasm.

His movements become sporadic, only stopping once he’s fully inside of you. Steve lets out a cry, holding you tightly against him. Even in your blissed out state, you can feel the way his cum begins to fill you up. It was like nothing you’d ever felt before, your whole body shuttering at the feeling.

Steve’s chest was heaving, making you rise and fall with each breath. Once you get your bearings, you push yourself off of him and sit straight up. You look down at the man below you, and take him in; his hairy chest is red and flush, matching the color of his cheeks and tips of his ears. His eyes are completely glazed over, and his red, pouty lips are parted as he catches his breath. He looked perfect like this, making you wish you had a camera to remember him like this always.

”Are you okay?” You ask, and his eyes open slightly like your words have just brought him back to earth. He nods his head, his hands covering his face as he pushes them into his hair.

“I can’t believe we—I mean, I’ve never—“

”Me neither,” you chuckle, your hands rubbing over the expanse of his stomach up to his chest. “But I think I’m already addicted.”

You’re surprised when you feel him twitch inside you, your wide eyes looking at him with shock.

“I think I am, too,” he says, turning his head to the side bashfully. You lean forward and give him a smooch on his cheek, making him chase after your lips until you kiss him again.

An ache starts to settle in your hips, and you come to the conclusion that you, unfortunately, need to pull off of Steve. You hated it, wishing you could keep him inside you forever. With a pout, you lifted yourself off of him, his softening cock falling forward and landing on his stomach.

You fling yourself off of him, plopping onto the bed and cuddling up next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close so he can place a kiss on top of your head. There’s a quiet beat between you as you bask in the post sex afterglow before Steve finally breaks the silence.

”Can you…feel it?”

You look up at him, and his eyes look everywhere but you.

”Feel what?”

”You know, my…stuff,” he says the last word quietly, making you giggle.

”Your cum? Yeah, it feels kinda funny. Like it felt good in the moment, but now it feels weird. I think some of it is starting to come out.”

Steve nods his head, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Can I…” he starts, his cheeks tinting red like he was embarrassed. “Can I see?”

You tilt your head at him, “Sure, I don’t see why not.” You push off of him, and he lifts himself up from under you. Moving in the bed, you open your legs and he positions himself between them. You feel kind of silly, but the look on his face tells you that this is something very important to him.

“Oh wow,” he whispers, his eyes going wide at the sight of his cum dripping out of you.

“What?” You ask him, grinning at the sight of him so mesmerized.

”I don’t know, it’s just—“ His hand moves forward until you can feel it pressing against you. He moves it along your backside before you feel him pushing two fingers inside of you.

”O-oh,” you stutter, the feeling of his fingers deep inside of you stirring something in you once again.

”That is—wow,” Steve breathes, shaking his head incredulously.

He doesn’t take his fingers out of you right away, moving them inside of you as he watches your face to gauge your reaction. When you don’t protest, he keeps going, your head falling back as he begins to fuck you with his fingers, using his cum as lube.

He does this until you cum again, gasping out as you spasm around his fingers. You fall back against the pillow, completely boneless after cumming for a second time. You think this is it, but you’re blissfully unaware of what is going on inside Steve’s head.

You had no idea what kind of beast you’d unleashed when you pulled that condom off, but he spent the rest of the night showing you a side of him you’ve never seen before. Fucking you in every position imaginable, his name ringing through the house as you screamed it deep into the night.

You lost count how many times you had cum.

How many times he had cum.

Just when you didn’t think you could take any more of his spend, he was spilling more into you. And if it started to fall out, well, he was pushing it back inside of you, telling you it couldn’t go to waste.

The ballroom reeks of desperation masked in perfume.

You can taste it beneath the rosewater, beneath the wine too sweet on noble tongues. Rot disguised as ambition. They circle you, these carrion birds with painted smiles, waiting for you to prove what they already believe: that you're the unnatural thing that tore itself from your mother's womb, the abomination who watched her parents bleed on the polished floors of this very hall.

(twelve years old, marble tiles, so much blood—)

The blood pooled thick between the cracks. Seeped into the limestone and mortar. Your nursemaid knelt beside you, that sweet woman with her rough hands gentle on your shoulders, whispering it would be alright even as your parents' blood soaked through her skirts.

(—how would the servants ever get it clean?)

They managed, of course; all evidence scrubbed away by morning.

They'd been rewarded greatly for their efforts and their silence.

(You made sure of it. First lesson in queenship: someone else scrubs away your sins.)

Fifteen years later, your nursemaid still serves you. Gray-haired now, arthritic fingers that shake when she pours your tea, but her eyes never hold fear. None of them do—the servants, the commonfolk who crowd the streets, the orphans who you allow to braid your hair with their sticky fingers and press dandelions into your palms.

It's only the nobles who look at you wrong. Who act as though your very breath is an insult to the natural order.

Lord Fen bows before you now, his hand extended. Liver-spotted. Soft. You take it because you must. Because a queen dances, a queen smiles, a queen plays the game until the board is cleared and only she remains standing.

"Your Majesty." His breath smells of brandy and tooth decay. Of things rotting from the inside out. "You are radiant this evening."

"You flatter me, Lord Fen."

The words taste of ash. Like the burnt offerings you leave in the chamber tucked away behind your bookshelf.

He's handsome enough, you suppose. Was handsome once. Strong jaw going soft now, eyes the color of summer grass that's started to brown at the edges. Dark hair swept back from a face that might have launched a dozen love affairs in his youth. There's a thickness to him now. A cushiness around his middle that speaks of too much comfort, too many years of taking what he wants without consequence. Fingers too calloused. Smile too easy.

Forty-three and unwed, the halls whisper. Heir to considerable lands in the south. Vineyards and wheat fields that survived the scourge when so many others turned to dust. He's been angling for an audience for months.

Tonight, you've decided to grant it.

(tonight, you've decided to end it.)

"I speak only truth, Your Majesty." He pulls you closer as the orchestra swells—violins keening like wounded animals, like the sound your mother made when she bore you. "The kingdom has been without a proper heir for too long. The people grow…concerned."

Proper heir.

As if any child of yours could ever be considered proper by their standards. As if anything that came from your body could be anything but an abomination.

"The people," you echo. Lips curved just so, lashes lowered. Let him think he's getting somewhere. "Tell me, Lord Fen, what do the people say?"

He has the grace to look uncomfortable, but the wine quickly drowns his caution. A half-hiccupped breath; it bubbles up through his throat.

"They...the commonfolk adore you, Your Majesty. They speak of you like a saint." His voice drops lower, intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for your ears. As if the entire ballroom isn't listening, waiting, watching. "But those of us with…perspective...we worry. So many years for a throne to remain unsecured. A young queen, unmarried, without prospects…"

He leaves the noose of implication hanging between you.

"I see." You keep your voice neutral; you've perfected neutrality over the years, learned to conceal everything behind a mask of polite interest. "And I suppose those of you who carry such a “worried perspective” have suggestions?"

"Only that perhaps Your Majesty might consider…companionship." His hand slides imperceptibly lower on your waist. Testing. Seeing how far to push before you break, before you reveal what you really are beneath the crown. "There are many suitable matches among the noble houses. Men of good breeding who would be honored to provide the kingdom with stability."

How careful he is. How diplomatic.

They've learned not to be too direct with you, these nobles. They remember the one who pushed too hard, demanded too much, who thought a young queen would be easy to control. The ones who disappeared.

(—the ones who rot in that hidden chamber —the ones whose screams you still hear when the wind blows wrong.)

"How thoughtful," you murmur. "That the nobility concerns itself so deeply with my personal affairs."

"We concern ourselves with the kingdom's future, Your Majesty." His hand slides lower. Possessive, as if he has any right to touch you at all. "A future requires…continuation."

His eyes dart to the far corner of the ballroom where your Knight stands in the shadows, where the torchlight doesn't quite reach.

A figure of stillness among the whirling dancers. The others give him a wide berth, their discomfort palpable through the music and wine and gaiety. They don’t like to look at him too long. Don’t like the way he stands so still, or the chill that seems to emanate from him, or the faint smell of earth and decay that sticks to his armor no matter how many times he cleans it.

They think him strange. Unsettling. Wrong, just like the queen he protects.

They don't know.

(three years ago, assassins in the night, his last words breathed against your neck while his blood soaked through your nightgown: I love you—)

The ritual took everything you had and things you didn't know you could give. Your blood painted in circles around his corpse. Your hair, cut and burned. Your tears mixed with oils from things long forgotten. You carved sigils into his flesh that haven't faded, will never fade. Permanent marks of what you did, what he became, what you were willing to sacrifice. You screamed the words until your throat bled, poured magic into his body until you thought you'd die too.

And then his eyes opened.

Frost-rimmed. Milky. Fixed on you with a devotion that went beyond death, exists only in the space between breathing and not.

He was lovely once. Handsome in the way that made noble daughters blush and stammer and giggle behind fans and gossip over tea.

You grew up together; he was the son of your father's master-at-arms, raised in the castle alongside you. A friend, a protector, and something much, much more. Your childhood companion who taught you to climb trees and hide frogs in your tutor's desk. Your guardian when you grew older. Your lover, in the stolen moments when duty allowed, when no one was watching, when you could pretend to be just a girl and a boy instead of a queen and her servant.

He's something else, now.

A grotesque thing wearing the shape of the man you loved, the man you couldn't let go. His skin has gone gray, waxy. His movements are too smooth, too controlled, lacking the imperfections of life—the unconscious gestures, the fidgeting, the breathing. And the smell. Gods, the smell. It clings to him, drifting over your tongue when he stands too close: rot and decay, ancient and wrong and yours.

His armor conceals most of it. The full plate helm hides his face and the gauntlets, his hands. He never removes it in public, not where anyone might see what you’ve made him.

Only you know. Only you can see him without the armor, in the privacy of your chambers, where he's still yours.

"My Knight is loyal," you speak softly, barely heard over the music. Lord Fen shivers. "Can you say the same, my lord?"

You don't call him by name, another thing taken in that unholy ritual.

He used to be someone, but that person died three years ago. What came back is other. Changed. Transformed. Existing only in relation to you, defined only by his purpose.

Your Knight.

Your creature.

Your love.

Yours.

"I would be honored to prove my loyalty, Your Majesty." Lord Fen's voice takes a new, hungry tone now. Pretense stripped away by the wine. "In whatever capacity you might require."

The music swells around you. Violins and cellos, a waltz in minor key. You let the moment stretch, let him wonder, let him hope.

"Would you?" You meet his eyes, holding his gaze. Your fingers linger in invitation; the first step into a trap. "That's very generous, Lord Fen."

His breath is hot against your ear, wine-sour and desperate. "I would give you anything. Everything."

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. You let him see the consideration in your eyes, the possibility flickering there. The moment before the flame catches and everything burns.

"Come to my chambers when the ball ends," you say quietly. Soft enough that only he can hear. Loud enough that he knows you mean it. "We'll discuss the kingdom's…future."

You feel it the moment the words leave your lips.

A pull in your chest. A tightening of invisible threads that bind you to the figure in the shadows. Across the ballroom, through the dancers, through the space between beginning and end, your Knight's head turns. His eyes finds yours, see into you and through you and know you better than you know yourself.

The ball drags on and on and on.

You dance with others. Lord Kyran with his snow-pale eyes that never blink. Lady Ilse who touches your arms with clammy fingers, who smells of lilacs and something sour underneath. The Duke of something-or-other whose name slides out of your mind the moment he speaks it, whose face you won't remember tomorrow, who will die eventually and you won't even notice. They blur together, these nobles. Interchangeable in their greed and certainty that they deserve more than they have.

Lord Fen watches you from across the room.

Wine glass after wine glass disappearing down his throat. His gaze grows heavier, more obvious, tracking you. When you catch his eye, you don't look away. You hold it, letting your smile tilt up ever-so-slightly.

(he thinks he's won—)

He thinks he'll bed a queen tonight. Put a child in her belly and secure his legacy. He thinks his name will be written in the histories as the man who “saved” a kingdom by giving the cursed queen what she needed most: legitimacy, continuation, an heir.

Funny, how everyone assumes they know what you need.

The clock strikes midnight, chime echoing through the ballroom. A warning no one heeds, the sound of inevitability. You catch Lord Fen's eye one last time, then turn, and make your way toward the doors.

The corridors of the castle are darker than the ballroom, lit by torches spaced too far apart. Your shadow stretches long and thin against the stone walls, elongating, distorting. Behind you, Lord Fen's footsteps echo too loud, too clumsy.

Behind him, another set of footsteps. Silent as the grave.

Your chambers are in the eastern tower, up three flights of winding stairs. By the time you reach the door, Lord Fen is breathing hard, panting with exertion and want and the belief that he's about to be handed everything he's ever dreamed of. You push open the heavy, wooden door and step inside, leaving it open behind you.

An invitation.

He follows like a dog after meat.

Your chambers are exactly as you left them this morning. The four-poster bed with its curtains of dark velvet—

(you've bled on those sheets, screamed into those pillows, worked magic that would damn you while in that bed)

—sits near the fireplace that crackles with low flames. Bookshelves crammed with a collection of texts, some common, some that would condemn you if they were ever found. The air smells of myrrh and incense, of smoke and the dried herbs that hang in bundles tied with red thread: yarrow, wormwood, belladonna, nightshade. Candles cluster on every surface, their flames casting dancing shadows that move like living things, like spirits, like the ghosts that linger behind your bookshelf.

Press the spine of a leather-bound tome on poisons and it swings open, revealing the small chamber beyond. That's where the worst of it happens: the rituals that require circles and blood and screaming; the magic that costs pieces of your soul; the sacrifices that keep your kingdom fed, your harvest plentiful, your people healthy while your nobles corrode from the inside out.

(—the bodies feed the land and the land feeds the people and the people love their queen who keeps them safe)

No one knows. Not your nursemaid, not your advisors, not the servants who adore you. Only your Knight knows what you are, what you've done, what you'll do. Only he knows the truth of your parents’ assassination; that you were twelve years old, steeped in dark magics, and willing to do whatever it took to rule.

He loves you anyway.

(loved—loves—what's the difference when death is just another battle he's returned to you from?)

"Your Majesty," Lord Fen begins, but you silence him with a raised hand.

"Lock the door."

He obeys, fumbling with the bolt, fingers clumsy with wine and anticipation. When he turns back, his eyes are glazed with want. Pupils blown wide, breathing ragged, hands already reaching for you.

You slink toward him, fingers trailing along the back of a chair, the edge of your desk, touching familiar things, grounding yourself in what you're about to do.

"You said you would give me anything," you murmur as you close in on him. His beard tickles your lips when you lean close. "Everything."

"Yes. Yes, anything you desire."

He reaches for you with the confidence of a man who's never been denied, but you step back to keep yourself just out of reach.

"Tell me, Lord Fen—" you circle him slowly, predator assessing prey, queen measuring subject. "—what do you imagine happens next?"

"I..." He swallows hard. "I had hoped that Your Majesty might...that we might..."

"Might what?" You stop in front of him. "Speak plainly."

"That you would allow me to..." The words tumble out in a rush, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to be said. "To serve you. Give you what the kingdom needs: an heir. I would be honored. Grateful. I would ask for nothing in return, no recognition, no—"

"Liar."

You smile when you say it. Sweet and understanding.

"You'd want everything. The power, the recognition. The knowledge that a child of yours might sit on my throne one day." You move closer, closer, closer, until you can smell the wine on his breath and see the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. "But that's what makes this so perfect. Your ambition. Your appetite."

Your hand comes up to rest on his chest. His heart pounds beneath your palm, terror and arousal in equal measure.

"You're very handsome, Lord Fen. I can feel how badly you want this." You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip, feeling the scratch of stubble, the pulse jumping beneath his skin.

"Your Majes—"

"Shhh." You press a finger to his lips. They part at your touch, his breath hot and damp.

You kiss him then. Press your lips to his so he may taste the wine on your tongue. He groans, trembling hands coming up to your waist, still uncertain if he's allowed to touch. You take them, place them where you want them. Guide him. Control him. Show him exactly what you want him to think you want.

He kisses your neck, and you reward his clumsy trail down to your shoulder with a pitchy moan. Lord Fen's hands fumble with the laces of your gown. You help him; loosen the ties yourself to make it easy.

(You've perfected this performance: yield just enough; sigh breathy and gasping, press your body as if you can’t help yourself.)

The bodice loosens. The fabric begins to slip, revealing your shift, thin white silk that shows the shape of you. You press closer to him to let him feel your heat through the fabric. His hands slide down your waist, your hips, growing bolder now. Greedy in that way he only knows how to be.

You cup Lord Fen's face, pulling him in for another kiss. Deeper this time. More convincing. His hands tighten on you, possessive.

The gown slips further, falling to your waist.

You stand before him in just your shift, translucent in the candlelight. Pupils blown so wide they swallow the green, he breathes ragged when he reaches for you again, grasping, taking, claiming.

Your hand slides down to the back of your thigh where the small knife is strapped.

(A gift from your Knight, years ago when you were both still alive, when words came without struggle. Keep it close, he'd said, pressing it into your palm, closing your fingers around the hilt. Always be ready.)

You feel its weight, steel warmed by your body heat and the magic that courses through your veins.

In one swift motion, you drive it up into Lord Fen's throat.

The blade punches through flesh, severs something vital. An artery, maybe? His windpipe? Both? Blood floods hot over your hand, your wrist, splattering across your shift in waves of crimson dye. His eyes go wide with shock, with betrayal and a tiny spark of vindication that you are the monster he knew you were.

His mouth opens, a pathetic gurgle of a scream leaking through the blood and spit foaming on his lips.

You pull the knife free and stab again. —again. —again. Blood sprays across your face, your chest, your arms. It soaks the silk of your shift, painting you in violence and the price of ambition. Lord Fen gurgles more incomprehensible words, hands coming up weakly to claw at the air. You stab him once more, driving the blade deep between his ribs. You feel it sink into him, revel in the scrape of his bones.

Lord Fen collapses against you.

He's lighter than you expected. Still alive—barely, but alive. His blood pours scalding and slick between your bodies, pooling in the space where he thought he'd plant his seed and secure his future. You feel his heart stuttering against your chest, irregular beats growing weaker with every thump.

From the darkness, your Knight steps forward.

Helm set aside, his clouded eyes fixate on where Lord Fen slumps against you. His stare follows the flow of blood down to where the lord's hand still weakly clutches at your waist. Fingers curling into fists, his jealousy thrums in your bones.

When Lord Fen's legs give out, you let him slide down your body, leaving streaks of red. He crumples to the floor with a gooey, choking sound. Still breathing. Still bleeding. Watching as your Knight crosses the room in three strong strides.

His hands replace where Lord Fen's were moments ago, wiping away the touch with his own frigid grip. He pulls you close, buries his face to your neck, and breathes deep of the scent of you. The aroma of dried herbs and magic now mixed with the copper tang of blood; something so uniquely you, something that's always been his, that could never belong to anyone else.

Mine, the gesture says. Not his. Never his. Mine.

You feel Lord Fen's gaze on you both. Fading, but still aware. Realizing, in these final moments, what he was never going to have. Dying on your floor, he watches your monster cling to you with an embrace that speaks of obsession, of a devotion that goes beyond anything a living man could offer.

Your Knight pulls back just enough to look at you. His wrongness is dimmed in the candlelight—skin stretched too tight over bones that jut at angles not quite right, frost melting and reforming in the whites of his eyes with each blink.

You reach up, cup his monstrous face in your bloodied hands. You trace the sharp line of his jaw where the skin has discolored, the hollow of his sunken cheek, the far-bent curve of his brow. He leans into your touch, starving for it, as though it's the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

"Help me with your armor," you command faintly.

His eyes flicker down to Lord Fen, still breathing, still watching. Good.

(let him see what real devotion looks like, what happens when you try to take what belongs to death itself)

Your Knight begins removing his armor piece by piece.

The gauntlets go first, revealing mottled hands, fingers stiff with rigor, skin that peels from the tips. Vambraces. Pauldrons. Each piece falls to the floor with the heavy clank of metal on stone. You help him with the breastplate, your fingers finding the straps by practice, by memory. The metal comes away to reveal his torso. There's no heartbeat beneath the stiff muscle, no rise and fall of his chest.

More armor. Tassets, cuisses, greaves. More and more until he stands before you in nothing but his undead body.

He's a horror. You know this objectively. Skin dotted with darker patches where blood pooled after death and never quite dispersed. His scars still ooze, bruises never fade, his temperature sits too corpse-cold. But his face...Even changed, you can still see the boy who held your hand when you skinned your knee, who showed you where the cooks hid the fresh treats. The young man who kissed you in the rose garden. The knight who swore he'd love you until death.

(and you think maybe that's what love is, in the end. needing someone so terribly, you'd drag them back from the beyond to keep them with you.)

You trace your bloodied finger down his chest, following the path of an old scar from a training accident when he was sixteen. His teacher had never been one to pull his punches, the sword the slipped past your Knight's guard a harsh reminder. He shivers under your touch.

"You're beautiful," you whisper.

His eyes close, and he makes a sound—half grief, half disbelief, lik he can't understand how you could say that. How could you look at what he's become and see anything but horror?

But you mean it. Even now, especially now. Because he came back for you; he stayed when he could have moved on, could have found peace, could have let go.

Behind you, Lord Fen gives one final, gasping breath. A frantic, heaving attempt to survive.

Then…silence.

Lord Fen's blood slicks your skin, cooling rapidly in the air. Your Knight pulls you flush against his rigid stillness, and lowers his head.

His mouth, where the skin of his lips has thinned and peeled, presses to the curve of your throat. He doesn't kiss you. Instead, he inhales the scent of your blood-sweat with furious greed. You tilt your head back, offering your neck. Surrender that is command. A sound, low in his chest, rattles through you. His teeth, sharper than they were in life—

(death changed them, changed everything)

—scrape over your sensitive skin. Not breaking. Not yet.

"Show me," you breathe. "Show me you're mine."

He needs no further direction. Never needs permission, always knows what you want before you want it because death made him yours in ways life never could.

His hands move from your waist, one tangling in the hair at your nape, the other gripping your hip with strength that would bruise living flesh.

(will bruise you, does bruise you, marks that will bloom purple-black and lasting)

He walks you backward with a purpose. Back, back, back, until your legs hit the plush edge of your bed. Velvet curtains dark as dried blood, as rust, as the stains that never quite come out no matter how the servants scrub.

He pushes. You fall.

The mattress sinks beneath you, welcoming you with its soft caress. He stands over you, eyes devouring the sight of you. He drinks you in inch by inch: the blood on your spreading thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the hunger in your eyes, the proof that you're alive, so alive, while he is—

(not)

His gaze is a physical touch. It lingers on all the places where Lord Fen had dared to touch. His jaw tightens, tendon standing out. The violent current of jealousy hums in the air, making the candles flicker and the tether of your soul respond. This possessiveness, fuel.

He follows you down, one knee pressing between your legs. He leans over you, caging you in with a hand on your hip, and his face is so close. The graverot smell of him fills your lungs, intoxicating as any incense. You breathe him in; you can't help it, you need him.

His hand leaves your hip, slides over to press on your belly, just below your navel. The touch is reverent, searching for something that isn't there yet, that might never be there, that you've killed for again and again trying to make real.

This body. This womb.

A sound escapes you. The desperate whimper of years spent poring over blasphemous texts and performing acts that would make lesser women scream. All for this one thing. To take a seed from a corpse and make it bloom inside you, create an heir that is truly, undeniably yours.

His.

Ours.

He understands—

(that's what makes this bearable, that he knows, he sees, and he loves you anyway)

—He always understands.

He lowers and you think he'll kiss you, but he bypasses your lips. Instead, his mouth finds the blood splattered across your stomach. His tongue, cold and too rough, laps at it. It's not gentle, not a kiss. He's cleaning you. Trying to erase Lord Fen's presence and replace it with his own.

He traces patterns in the blood with his tongue, following lines of muscle and sinew to map you, know you, worship you. He reaches for the blood-soaked fabric of your shift still bunched around your hips. Without ceremony, he tears it. The echo of ripping silk louder than everything else.

He bares you completely to the firelight, to his starving gaze, to everything you are and everything you want to become.

He settles between your thighs, his scarred skin scraping yours (more marks, more evidence that this happened. you did this. you're doing it again). His hands grip your hips, pulling you forward, opening you to him. He looks up at you then—monster adoring his maker—and the raw devotion in his eyes is a physical blow.

You are everything to him.

His life. His death. His reason for being. His reason for not being.

His head dips.

His mouth is on you and you moan out a tickled gasp. The cold is a shock, exquisite agony against your heated flesh. His tongue works you with aching intensity. There is no practiced art here, no technique learned from courtesans or books, only his overwhelming need to indulge. To pleasure what is his and his alone, exploring every inch with lips and teeth and tongue.

The world dissolves.

Fire, candles, Lord Fen's corpse on the floor, it all fades into the background. There is only the feeling of him and the rough texture of his tongue on you—in you. He is relentless, driving you higher and higher, an eager climb toward a peak you both crave.

You fist your hands in the sheets, in your hair, searching for something—anything—to anchor you because you're floating, fracturing, coming apart. Body bowing off the bed, that string of sheer sensation pulling taut. His grip tightens, holding you in place for his onslaught. The pressure builds. The magic coils deep, air growing thick in response. The edges of your vision shimmer.

You want him inside you. Need it. Primal, animal urge that eclipses all thought and reason. You need to feel him, all of him, filling the emptiness inside you. You need him to banish that ache that has been your constant companion for the past three years.

"Please," you beg, the only word your mind can form.

He lifts his head, his face slick with you and with Lord Fen's blood—monstrously stunning, divine and damned. He understands. His body moves over yours, skin against naked skin.

You feel him everywhere: the stillness of his chest against your breast; the rigid, unwavering length of him on your thigh. He positions himself and you brace for that blessed, impossible cold.

But he hesitates.

His hazed eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. Permission maybe, or absolution, or confirmation that you still want this, still want him despite what he's become.

"Mine," he croaks. The words are gravelly, painful, torn from a throat that should never again speak. "My...Queen."

"Yours," you breathe. "Always yours."

(and you mean it—gods help you, you mean it)

He enters you in one smooth, agonizing thrust.

It steals your breath, that feeling of being filled with a deep, burning chill that seems to reach your very core. You cry out again; this is the void you've been craving, the missing piece, what makes you whole.

He begins to move—a slow, deep rhythm that teeters on over-possessive. Each thrust is a declaration, each withdrawal a reminder of the way he completes you. He is not gentle, not tender, but a force of nature; a tidal wave of death and devotion, and you are the shore he breaks upon.

He leans down, and you expect a kiss, but his teeth sink into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. The pain is sharp, sacred, a jolt that pushes you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you, wrings you out so thoroughly to leave you boneless and breathless. You clench around him, body yearning for him to draw deeper. To give you the one thing he shouldn't be able to.

Seed. Life. Future.

At the height of your peak, the change pulses in him. His movements falter, harder, faster, stuttering desperation. A growl builds in his chest, a purring strain of effort. Pushing. Forcing. The magic in the air surges, a tangible pressure at the back of your eyes.

You can feel it. The unholy power he draws from the void, focused on this singular goal.

You wrap your legs around him, urging him on. You claw at his back, nails scraping against dry, scarred flesh. You feel the strain in every muscle of his body, so intense it feels as though he might break apart. He pours everything he has, everything he is and isn’t, into this single, monumental act.

A violent, convulsive tremor runs through him from head to toe. He groans, a noise of agony, of something being ripped from him that defies all laws of nature. He buries his face in your neck and you feel it: not the warmth of living seed, but something else entirely.

Deep, searing ice poured directly into your womb. Desecration and salvation. You wail as that wicked life-force fills you, claiming you from the inside out.

Yes. Finally. Please let it work. Please.

He collapses onto you, limp and spent. His breathing—more affectation since his return—slows to a halt. He is a corpse again, draped over you like a shroud.

But inside you, the bitter chill fades to warmth. An ember in the cold dead of night.

You lie there for a long time, tangled together on soaked silks. You stroke his back, fingertips tracing across the notches of his spine.

The life you have taken, the magic you wrought, settles into your bones.

Taking root.

Please.

It fades, a sudden, vicious snuffing out. Your womb glows with life for one heartbeat-stretched moment before it cools, becoming just another part of your own familiar warmth. The tide of sizzling magic recedes, leaving behind only the sticky reality of sex and the hollow ache of failure.

(not again—)

(again—)

(andagainandagainandagainandagain—)

The weight on you becomes heavier. No longer the satisfying weight of a lover spent, but the oppressive deadness of a corpse.

His head lifts from the crook of your neck. The movement is stiff, grating, wrong. He looks down at you, the devotion in those colorless eyes now tinged with a terrible emptiness. The hope that burned there moments ago is gone, extinguished as quickly as the life within you.

He knows. He feels it through the invisible threads that connect you. He feels the barrenness of your womb as if it were his own.

(—you're crying now, when did you start crying?)

He pushes himself up, careful so as not to hurt you. His hands, still streaked with blood and your fluids, brace on the mattress on either side of your head. He withdraws from your body and the loss of him echoes. The cooling wetness that spills from you the final, ignominious proof of the ritual's failure.

A useless sacrifice.

(Not guilt. You can't afford to feel guilty. Guilt is a luxury for people who have other options, for people who aren't trying to create the impossible, for people who aren't queens.)

He kneels beside you, a statue carved from regret. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the marks he's left: the bruise already forming on your shoulder, the fainter prints of his fingers on your hips, the scrape from his skin on your inner thighs. His expression remains that same mask of inhuman stillness, but you feel the flicker of something through your bond.

Remorse.

Not for the act—never for the act—but for the pain. For the evidence of his violence on your skin.

He touches you, infinitely gentler now. One gnarled hand slides under your back while the other cradles your head. With tender care, he levers you into a sitting position. The movement is effortless, devoid of any strain a living man might feel. He arranges the pillows behind you, plumping them in quiet service. He tucks the ruined shift around your lap, a futile attempt at modesty, at pretending you're anything other than what you are.

He stands, crossing to the washstand in the corner, each footfall a whisper on stone.

You watch him, take note of the way the orange fireglow catches on his waxy skin. He pours water from the ceramic pitcher into a silver goblet, a delicate splash in the heavy silence.

He doesn't use a cloth to wipe the blood from himself first. Doesn't seem to notice it. His focus is singular.

You.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the dark. "I'm so sorry."

(For what?

For killing him in the first place, for failing to protect him three years ago?

For dragging him back, for making him into this twisted thing?

For what you made him do tonight?

For what you'll make him do again?

For loving him so obsessively that you'd damn the world to have his child?)

He doesn't answer. The dead rarely do.

He returns to the bed, goblet and pitcher held carefully. Pitcher set on the nightstand, he kneels again, pressing the goblet delicately to your lips. You tilt your head back, mouth parted just enough to sip. The water is clean, tasteless, washing away the coppery tang of blood from your mouth.

When he's satisfied, he lets you take the goblet in favor of settling beside you. His frigid hands stroke your hair, sweeping down to soothe over your back to pull you into his chest. He rocks softly, a subtle back and forth as an uneven rasp rattles from his throat. A poor imitation of the orchestra’s song to gift you your own private dance. Soothing you in the only way he knows how.

You sway together for a long time, curled against his cold chest with his arms around you. The blood dries, the candles burn down to nothing, your eyelids droop.

"We'll try again," you say through a yawn as he takes the goblet from your hands. "Next time. Next time it will work."

He nods slowly. Then, with obvious effort, his jaw working, his throat convulsing with difficulty: "Next...time."

Two words. Forced from a dead tongue. For you.

(he knows what you are and he loves you anyway—

—loves—loved—loves again—what's the difference when you've rewritten the rules of death itself?)

You’d heard him before you saw him. A low, reverberating sound, not a growl, but a deep, clicking purr that seemed to travel through the stone itself and up the bones of your legs. You’d frozen, pressing yourself into a crevice, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The sound got closer, accompanied by the heavy, deliberate scrape of something massive moving over rock.

Then, the glow of your stick caught him.

He filled the tunnel ahead. 

Not a lizard, not quite a dragon from any Earth myth, but something horrifyingly in between. He was bipedal, towering over eight feet tall, covered in plates of deep umber and rust-red scales. A powerful tail, tipped with a spiked club, swept slowly behind him. His face was elongated, a draconic muzzle lined with serrated teeth, but his eyes… they were the worst. They were a luminous, intelligent gold, with vertical slits for pupils, and they were fixed on you.

You’d run. 

A futile, stumbling scramble. 

He’d followed with terrifying, leisurely strides. You’d fallen, the glow-stick skittering away, and then darkness had swallowed you, broken only by the faint bioluminescent fungi on the walls. He’d herded you, you realized later, like a predator corralling prey. 

Now, you were here. In his lair.

The chamber was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow. The primary light came from a deep, subterranean geothermal vent that pulsed with a soft glow, illuminating piles of what looked like polished metal, strange crystals. In the center was a massive nest of dried, fibrous moss and furs.

He stood between you and the only exit you could see. He was studying you, his head tilted. He’d spoken earlier, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that formed words in your own language, learned, you presumed, from the wreckage of your ship or the bodies of your crewmates.

“You are damaged,” he had said, pointing a clawed digit at your bleeding leg.

Now, he took a step closer. You scrambled back until your spine hit the warm stone wall. “Stay away from me!”

“You fear,” he stated, the words oddly precise. “It is… expected. But unnecessary. I am Rodrak. This is my territory. You are in it.”

“I’ll leave,” you choked out, hating the tremor in your voice. “Just let me go. I won’t come back.”

A chuckle shook his broad chest. “You cannot leave. You are here for a purpose.”

“What purpose?” you demanded, though a cold, sick dread was pooling in your stomach.

He moved with a speed that belied his size, closing the distance in a blink. One large, clawed hand wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. You shrieked, beating your fists against his scaled forearm, but it was like hitting solid rock. He carried you to the nest and set you down on the surprisingly soft furs, his body caging you in. The heat radiating from him was immense.

“My species requires a host,” he said, his golden eyes boring into yours. His muzzle was inches from your face. You could smell that musky scent directly now, stronger, more pungent. “A vessel. For the next generation. The eggs must be laid in a warm, living incubator. A compatible host.”

“No. No, find someone else. One of your own kind!”

“They are not compatible. Your biology… it is strange. Soft. Warm. Perfect.” He brought his other hand up and, with shocking delicacy, ran the back of a single claw down the side of your face. You flinched. “I have searched this sector for many cycles. The others from your crew were inadequate. Weak. You… you are strong. You have fire. You will be my mate. You will carry my clutch.”

“I will not!” you spat, thrashing anew. “You’re a monster! Let me go!”

The word ‘monster’ made his eyes narrow, but not with anger. With something like pity. “You do not understand. This is an honor. To be chosen. I will provide. I will protect. You will want for nothing, except my cock and my eggs.”

You stared at him, speechless for a moment. 

Then the struggle began in earnest. You fought with everything you had, kicking, scratching, twisting. He simply weathered it, his grip unyielding. With a low growl, he used his weight to pin you fully to the furs, your arms stretched above your head, held easily in one of his massive hands. His lower body settled between your thighs, pressing down. You could feel something then, through the fabric of your torn flight suit—a thick, heavy pressure against your lower stomach. Something that was not shaped like any human anatomy.

“The fear will pass,” he murmured. “It is the instinct of the prey. But you are not prey. You shall be my breeding mate. Your body will learn this truth before your mind does.”

He used his free hand to rend the fabric of your suit. Teared it. Cool air, then the intense heat of his body, hit your exposed skin. You cried out. He examined you, his gaze scalding as it traveled over your breasts, your stomach, the junction of your thighs. He made that clicking purr again, deep in his chest.

“So soft. So smooth. So wet. A proper nest for my seed.”

You were sobbing now, tears cutting tracks through the grime on your face. “Please, don’t. Please…”

He ignored your pleas. His head lowered, and you felt the rough, dry texture of his forked tongue drag up the center of your body from your navel to your sternum. “You taste of fear and salt. Soon, you will taste of need.”

His hand released your wrists to tear away the remains of your clothing below the waist. You tried to knee him, to buck him off, but it was futile. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading them wide, opening you to the glowing light of the cave and his relentless gaze. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to disappear into the darkness behind your eyelids.

Then you felt it. The pressure against your inner thigh. Hot, huge, insistent. You forced your eyes open and looked down.

His cock was as alien as the rest of him. It was thick, base easily the width of your wrist, tapering slightly to a blunt, rounded tip. It was a deep, glossy black, segmented like the exoskeleton of an insect, but pulsing with inner light of deep crimson along the seams. 

The most shocking feature were the pronounced, bulbous ridges that ringed the shaft, each one swelling larger than the last in a massive, knot-like medial ring about two-thirds of the way up. At the very base, you could see the heavy, taut swell of what must be his sacks, but they seemed oddly rigid.

“It will fit,” he said, observing your fixation. “Your body will stretch. It is designed to. The ridges will prepare the channel. The final ring will lock us together as I deposit the eggs in your womb.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered. “It’ll kill me.”

“It will not. I have studied your structure. It will be… intense. But you will survive. You will thrive.” He positioned the blunt, hot tip of his cock at your entrance.”

He didn’t force it in. 

Instead, he lowered his head again, his muzzle nudging your thighs apart further. You felt the hot, wet swipe of his tongue, broad and rough, directly over your pussy. You jerked and cried out. It wasn’t like a human tongue. It was abrasive, demanding, and it worked at you with a single-minded purpose. He licked into you, over your clit,the sensation was unbearable—a shocking violation that sent conflicting signals through your nerves. Your mind screamed in revolt, but your traitorous body, after minutes of this focused attention, began to betray you. 

He purred again, the vibration against your sensitive flesh making you gasp. “See? Your flesh knows its purpose. It welcomes me.”

You were panting now, shame and fear and a horrifying, creeping thread of arousal tangling in your gut. He rose back over you, the tip of his cock now slick with your own moisture. He pressed forward.

The initial stretch was agonizing. You screamed, the sound echoing off the cavern walls. The blunt, thick head pushed past your tight ring of muscle, spreading you wider than you’d ever been stretched. You felt like you were being split in two. He paused, letting your body strain around the first inch of him. The segmented ridges caught on your inner lips, creating a dragging, burning friction.

“Breathe, mate,” he commanded, his breath coming in sharp huffs. “Take the first knot. It is the hardest.”

He pushed again. You felt the first large ridge pop past your entrance, and a broken sob wrenched from your throat. The feeling of being stuffed, filled beyond capacity, was overwhelming. He didn’t stop. He fed more of that monstrous length into you, each successive ridge stretching you a little more, burning a little less, until your nerves felt flooded, overloaded with the sensation of being utterly penetrated. You were achingly full.

Then, the largest ring, the medial knot, met your entrance. He rocked his hips, applying steady pressure. “This is the seal,” he grunted. “Take it, and the breeding truly begins.”

You were shaking uncontrollably, sweat slicking your skin. You shook your head, whimpering “no, no, no” like a mantra. He gripped your hips, his claws pricking your skin, and thrust forward with a powerful snap of his hips.

The knot forced its way inside you.

The sensation was beyond anything you could have imagined. A brutal fullness that transcended pain and became a pure wave of stimulation. Your back arched off the furs, a guttural cry torn from your lips that wasn’t entirely one of agony. You were locked on him, impaled, feeling every throb of that alien cock deep in your belly. Your pussy clenched and fluttered around the massive intrusion in helpless spasms.

Rodrak roared, a sound of primal triumph that shook the cave. 

He began to move.

With the knot seated inside you, his strokes were short, deep, and punishing. He couldn’t pull out far, so each thrust was a grind, the ridges along his shaft dragging against your overstimulated inner walls with every inch. The friction was incredible, a relentless pleasure-pain that built with crazy speed. Your earlier fear was being consumed, burned away by the raw, physiological fire he was stoking inside you. Your cries shifted, the notes of protest dying, replaced by ragged, open-mouthed gasps.

“Your cunt is learning,” he snarled, his pace increasing. The slap of his scaled hips against your thighs was a loud, wet rhythm in the chamber. “It clutches at me. It begs for the eggs. Tell me you want them.”

“I don’t!” you moaned, but it sounded weak, even to your own ears. Your body was moving with his, hips lifting to meet his drives, your inner muscles milking the thick shaft locked inside you.

“Liar,” he hissed, pleasure evident in his guttural tone. “Your body does not lie. I can feel it. The channel is softening, preparing. It hungers for the clutch.”

He shifted his angle, and on the next deep, grinding thrust, the blunt tip of his cock struck something deep inside you—a spot that sent a lightning bolt of pure, blinding pleasure straight to your core. You screamed, your eyes flying open to meet his burning gold gaze.

“There,” he breathed, a smile stretching his maw. “The entrance to your womb. The eggs must pass through there. Do you feel how your body opens for me?”

He did it again, and again, hammering against your cervix with deliberate strokes. The pain of the initial penetration had melted, transformed into a deep, resonant ache of fullness and a shocking, spreading heat. A coil was tightening low in your belly, an orgasm building from the sheer intensity of the stimulation. The shame was still there, but it was distant, drowned out by the roaring in your blood and the slapping sounds of his breeding.

“I’m… I’m going to…” you choked out, unable to even finish the thought.

“Come,” he commanded. “Come on my cock. Prepare the way for the clutch.”

The order, the dominance in his voice, snapped the last thread of your resistance. Orgasm crashed over you, violent and all-consuming. Your vision whited out as your pussy clenched and convulsed around his invading length, the pulsations rippling along the ridged shaft. You heard your own voice, raw and screaming, echoing in the cavern.

Rodrak roared again as your internal spasms triggered his own release. You felt a sudden, hot flood deep inside you—not the familiar wetness of human cum, but a thicker, viscous, hot liquid. It filled you, painting your inner walls, a sensation of being claimed from the inside out. He pumped it into you in great jets, and you could feel your stomach distending slightly with the volume of it.

“The seed fertilizes the eggs,” he grunted, still pumping his hips in shallow motions, ensuring every drop was deposited at the deepest point. “Now… the clutch itself.”

The heat inside you intensified. You felt a strange, shifting pressure at the base of his cock, where it was locked inside you by the knot. Then, a new sensation. A solid, rounded object traveling up the internal channel of his cock. You felt it move through the shaft, a distinct, rolling bulge, until it reached the tip, pressed against your sensitive cervix.

Your eyes widened. “What… what is that?”

“The first egg,” he said, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. “Take it, mate. Open for it.”

The pressure increased. The blunt head of his cock was holding the egg firmly against the tiny opening of your womb. He gave a powerful thrust, pushing with his entire body.

A sharp pain lanced through you, different from the stretch of his cock. This was deeper, internal. You felt your cervix dilate, forced open by the pressure of the smooth orb. There was a pop, a sensation of something giving way, and then a profound fullness settled even deeper within you than his cock had reached. The first egg was inside your womb.

A broken whimper left your lips. It felt huge, a foreign presence in your body. Before you could even process it, you felt the second egg begin its journey up his shaft.

“Yes,” Rodrak moaned, his claws digging into your hips. “Your womb accepts them. It is perfect.”

The second egg pressed, and he thrust, and another pop, another wave of deep, filling pressure. Your mind was fragmenting. The pain was real, but it was woven through with the lingering echoes of your orgasm, the shocking heat of his seed, and the claiming pleasure of being so utterly used and filled. 

Egg after egg traveled up his cock and was pushed through your cervix into your womb. Three. Four. Five. Each one stretched you a little more, added to the heavy, gravid fullness in your belly. You lost count, lost in a haze of pain and overwhelming sensation. You were moaning continuously now, a stream of helpless, needy sounds. Your hands, which had been pushing weakly at his chest, now clutched at his scaled shoulders, holding on as he filled you with his offspring.

The final egg was deposited. He held himself deep, the knot still swollen inside you, keeping his seed and the eggs sealed within your body. He collapsed forward slightly, bracing himself on his arms above you, his hot breath washing over your face. His golden eyes were half-lidded, sated, possessive.

You lay beneath him, utterly spent, filled beyond imagination. Your belly was visibly rounded, taut with the clutch of heavy eggs and his copious alien-dragon seed. Every internal shift made you gasp.

Slowly, over long minutes, the knot at the base of his cock began to soften and subside. With a final, wet, sucking sound, he slipped out of you. A flood of hot fluid—a mixture of his seed and your own juices—gushed from your well-used pussy, soaking the furs beneath you. You felt empty and yet impossibly full at the same time.

Rodrak rolled to the side, gathering you against his scaled body. One large hand came to rest possessively on your swollen belly. You were too overwhelmed to fight him.

“The clutch is seeded,” he rumbled, his purr a vibration against your back. “They will incubate. You will nourish them. In time, they will hatch.”

You should have been revolted. 

You should have been planning your escape. 

But a deep, primal lethargy had taken hold. Your body hummed with the aftermath of the most shocking experience of your life. The fear was gone, burned away. In its place was a hollowed-out awe, and dawning curiosity.

“How… how long?” you heard yourself whisper.

“Several of your cycles,” he said. “You will stay here. With me. I will hunt for you. I will keep you warm.” His tongue swiped over the mark his teeth had left on your shoulder. “You did well, my mate. Your fear was strong, but your breeding heat was stronger. You took my entire clutch. I am… pleased.”

The word ‘pleased’ should have meant nothing. But a strange, warm flush spread through your chest. You looked down at his large, dark hand splayed across your belly, over the eggs he had planted inside you. Your mind was a storm of conflict, but your body… your body felt settled. Complete. 

You shifted, wincing at the ache between your legs and the heavy movement within you. You turned your head to look up at his draconic face. The luminous gold eyes watched you, waiting.

“Will it… will it feel like that again? When they hatch?”